


The Trials of California

by Thornvale



Series: The Eye of the Machine [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/Thornvale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smack bang in the middle of Death Valley, Scout and Sniper are forced to traverse the barren planes and find a way back to the base near Badwater Basin. Just how did they get there in the first place? Why is every passing day like a slowly worsening nightmare?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walkabout

**Author's Note:**

> Team Fortress 2 and its characters are the property of Valve. This story is non-profit.

The first thing he felt was the intense dryness of his mouth.

Scout noisily rolled his tongue to try and get the saliva flowing and blearily opened his eyes. Strange – his room was usually bright come the mornings, but it seemed oddly dim, and … smaller? He quickly sat up and cursed when his head impacted with the ceiling.

_What the fuck?_

This bunk was definitely not his, and neither was this room. It was too cramped and it smelt like tobacco and coffee, things which the Scout hardly indulged in, and when he eventually put his mind to it, he realised that he just could not remember how exactly he had gotten here. His head was pounding, either as a result of its recent knock or a hangover, and he felt so unbelievably thirsty that it gave him enough reason to believe that he'd had the time of his life last night.

With a groan, he flopped back down onto the pillow, but curiosity soon drove him out of the bed. Various things lying about the place indicated that this was actually Sniper's camper, namely the saxophone leant up against a cabinet and the various empty jars lying around. Spying a half full bottle of water stood on the side, he grabbed it and swiftly downed the lot, unceremoniously belching once he was done and tossing the empty bottle to one side.

"Sniper?" he called, heading for the gap between the two seats upfront. The boy leaned in and smirked slightly when he saw Sniper sat in the driver's seat. The older man was frowning as he gazed outside, something despondent about his complete silence even when Scout greeted him with a hard punch to the arm. "Sniper, yo, what the hell happened? What time is it? Why's it so freakin' hot in here, guy?"

"It's ten in the mornin'," Sniper said in a flat tone. "Can't you see what's outside?"

"Uh -" Scout looked out the windscreen, then held out his hands in a show of mock disbelief. "Whoa, jeez, a desert? Damn, it's so pretty, makes me wish that's what I saw every time we go out to work!"

Indeed, spread out miles before them was a familiar stretch of barren land. The ground was cracked from drought, and in the distance, Scout could even see dunes beginning to form from the sand. To either side of them were rocky mountains and sheer cliff faces. No matter where he looked, there was no sign of life, no people, not even a plant of decent size.

"This place looks dead. We're still at Badwater, right?" the young man continued, anxiously sliding into the passenger seat. He was beginning to realise just why Sniper seemed so dissociated. "Please tell me we're somewhere near Badwater, Snipes." There came a stretch of silence, one that fuelled Scout's rising sense of impending doom. If Sniper, of all people, was _nervous_ , then what the hell did that mean?

Were they lost?

"Hey!" Scout snapped, angrily batting the brim of Sniper's slouch hat. "You listenin' ta me? Are we near the base or what?"

"I dunno!" Sniper snarled suddenly, slamming his hands onto the wheel after pulling off his now wonky hat. "I went out there while you were sleepin'. Climbed up on one of those rocky mounds. Unless the base is outside this valley, we're miles and miles away from there. What's odd is that I couldn't have driven my camper _through_ those mountains, and my tank was only half full yesterday, meanin' we couldn't have made this stretch, either."

"Maybe you topped it up last night," Scout said, a trace of hope in his voice. "Yeah! We got drunk with the guys, decided to go on a trip and topped your tank up, and now we're -"

"Smack bang in the middle of ruddy nowhere," the older man growled. "Listen, I'm not a drunk driver, and there's no way in hell I'd ever let _you_ drive this ol' girl. I'd remember some of last night 'cause I'm not a fuckin' _lightweight_ , but …" His voice drifted into silence, confirming only what Scout feared. If the designated driver didn't know the way back, then how the hell were they meant to get back to base? They were going to get in a hell of a lot of trouble if they didn't turn up for work, but that was the least pressing thing on young Scout's mind at that time.

He rubbed his jaw. He ran a hand over the back of his head. He decided to fiddle with his earpiece and try to pick up any kind of signal, but all he got was a strangely distorted sound that was undecipherable.

"We must still be in California," Sniper reasoned, finally turning to look at Scout to watch him over the top of his tinted aviators. "The environment is near enough the same. We know where Badwater Basin is located, right?"

Scout gulped. "Are you sayin' that we're in the middle of Death _freakin'_ Valley?"

He did not need an answer. They were in a valley, and it was definitely the kind of place that promised death if they stayed here for too long. It was the hottest part of the States and only just reaching the end of its Summer season, meaning – if Scout remembered fourth grade geography correctly – the two of them were possibly going to either roast alive or end up trying to kill each other over the water supplies.

Perhaps the most imposing issue of all was the fact there was no way they would be respawned back at base if they died, even if the machine was switched on. If what Sniper said was correct, there was every chance they were too far away and could not risk relying on the respawn to keep them alive.

Scout reckoned he was going to need a new pair of underwear very soon.

"Yeah," Sniper muttered, scratching at the dark stubble on his jaw. "Death Valley." He tapped the fuel gauge thoughtfully. "If you're right and we filled the tank yesterday, then reasonably we could just turn her around and drive back." His tone was uncertain, however, as if there was a "but" coming into the equation, and so Scout swore out of frustration, slamming himself back into his seat and folding his arms.

"What? Jeez, Snipes! Are we gonna die or not?"

"Well, I can't promise anythin'," the man retorted in a low, threatening manner. Scout thought it was cool when he talked like that, but not when it was directed at _him_. "It's approachin' noon, and it's gonna get way hotter than it is now. The engine will overheat and we'll be stuck. Better to wait until it cools down again and drive through the night."

Though the thought of waiting was utterly repulsive, even Scout couldn't argue with the logic, instead choosing to rest his arms on the dashboard and flop his head onto them with a loud groan. Then, he quickly raised his head again and glared at Sniper suspiciously before jabbing a finger into his chest.

"I can't believe you don't remember drivin' us here, y'know. Ya don't even look hungover. This isn't some kind of kidnap mission, right? Those jackasses on BLU have had it in for me for years!" As if to add to the insult, he felt the side of Sniper's face, searching for any sign of a mask. The BLU spy had become rather more notorious with his antics as of late after discovering himself equally matched by his RED counterpart, and Scout wouldn't put it past him to drag him out here into the desert to finish him off, tired of the constant "BONK!s" and stolen intelligence. He found his hand being slowly pulled away, the grip on his wrist all too tight, and Sniper's dark eyes flashing with a short fuse.

"I don't remember a _bloody_ thing," came the reply. "Put your sweaty little hand on my face again and I'll make a throw-rug out of you, boy. I woke up just as confused as you, only sprawled on the floor with one blanket to my name, so at least I was gentlemanly enough to let you 'ave the bed, whatever happened last night. Give me any more jip ..."

"Alright, alright! I was jus'kiddin'!" Scout said loudly, the words followed by a nervous laugh. He shrank back a little, offering a toothy and anxious grin. The guy was without a doubt the one and only RED Sniper, or so he quickly forced himself to believe at that moment. When his hand was released, he quickly sat back in his own seat, placing his hands awkwardly onto his knees. "Soooo … What do we do, now?"

Expecting wisdom from a guy who had spent a life time in the Australian Outback, Scout was disappointed when all he got was a sneer. Sniper pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and quickly lit one before rolling down the window, exposing them both to the dry, breezeless desert air. The heat rose from the ground in distorting waves, the sight disturbing enough for the younger of the two men to moan and bring his knees up to his chest. The van was _boiling_ hot, but it looked like heading outside wasn't going to make the slightest difference.

Once he was halfway through his cigarette (and was notably calmer than a couple of minutes prior), Sniper rested his forearm on the window ledge and clicked his tongue before finally speaking.

"Right. There's enough food to last us about three days if we're sparse with it. It's water I'm concerned about. We're gonna need a lot of it in this heat. The water tank was half full last I checked, but that stuff's better for cleanin' and what have you. I don't bother sterilisin' it when I can just bring bottles onboard."

"How many bottles we got?" Scout asked, rubbing his nose.

"One five gallon. If we make it back by the mornin', it will definitely be enough, but if I was wrong and we don't find the base that way, then we'll be in a pickle."

Another nervous laugh escaped Scout. "Yeah, but we're gonna find the base, right? Or they'll find us first, right? I mean, there's nothin' here! It can't be that hard to find somethin' in this dumb freakin' wasteland."

"Sure," Sniper muttered somewhat unconvincingly. He took a final drag from his cigarette and then flicked the butt onto the sand below, closing his eyes as the last stream of smoke passed his lips. "Right. Grab us a blanket and the two fishing rods in the corner. Chop chop!" With that, he pulled his hat back on and opened the door to roll outside, pausing only when he noticed that Scout wasn't moving. "Oi, c'mon. What you waitin' for? Smissmas?"

"You're mad, Snipes! How can we go fishin' when there's no water round here?" the younger man protested, not particularly wanting to go outside, his mind suddenly set on the snakes and scorpions likely just waiting for them to leave the van. His brow furrowed angrily when his companion pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Kid, I jus' really wanted some father-son bonding time, y'know?" Sniper then slammed the door shut and leaned on the window with folded arms, surprisingly casual given the situation at hand, but Scout supposed that the bushman was used to this kind of terrain. If only he was a bit more _helpful_ about it, sometimes. "I'm building us some shade, you daft pillock. The rods are all that's long enough to support it. Now, c'mon!"

Scout slipped back through the gap between the chairs with an air of resentment, mindlessly pulling up the first blanket he found and grabbing the two fishing poles. After kicking the door open, he slunk outside and tossed everything down onto the ground at the older man's feet, causing a cloud of powdery sand to waft upwards. The boy was good at winding people up, and though Sniper was slower to anger than the likes of Heavy or Soldier, he still had a cracking temper on him. Scout did not recognise that he was largely the same, for he rarely practised any form of self-evaluation. If people didn't like him, they could get stuffed, even if they were technically the only ones with any know how regarding survival in … dangerous terrain.

He immediately thought better of his behaviour and picked up the stuff again upon receiving a vicious glance from the assassin.

"Thanks, mate," Sniper said with the slightest touch of venom, taking the poles first and setting about seeking crags in the ground large enough to support them. One was set about four metres from the van, and the other slightly further away, and they could be pushed deep enough that the tall poles stood up on their own. Next came the tartan-patterned blanket that he slung across his shoulder before climbing up to the top of the van via the rear ladder. The metal surface was roasting hot, so he was quick about tying two corners of the blanket to the rail before sliding down again and reaching up to tie the other two to the poles. The material was coarse enough that the knots stayed put.

"Why've you got two poles if you do all this stuff by yourself?" Scout asked, already bored. He leaned against the side of the van as he watched the other work – but thought better of it when his bare arms started getting roasted. "Ow – I mean, yeah, why?"

"Came in useful, din't it?" was the response, though Sniper seemed to think it was unsatisfactory, as he continued, "Me and dad used to go out onto a lake. It was near Adelaide, by the mountains, one of those few untouched places in Australia that had any soul, you know, 'cause of the giant cities and endless expectations and all -"

"Wow, okay, didn't need your life story," Scout snorted, waving his hands dismissively. "But you probably shouldn't joke around about that father-son stuff, right? I mean, jeez, _I_ sure didn't appreciate it, dunno about you."

Almost certain he was going to get told to piss off, he prepared by opening the door to the van to disappear inside, but was surprised when he received a barely audible apology, instead. Given recent events in Sniper's personal life, it seemed appropriate. Scout just managed to brush it off with a shrug and went to get cleaned up.

By the time he was done, coffee was being prepared on the tiny stove and there was already a small fire set up outside. Despite everything, the smell of coffee and cooking bacon seemed to make everything a little less dire, even if they were in the middle of nowhere and possibly facing a miserable death. He found himself glad that he had chosen Sniper to come on this errant adventure with him, because the guy at least knew how to cook and how to calmly think his way out of a situation, whereas some of the others weren't quite so … able with these things, including himself, he inwardly admitted, though swiftly dismissed that train of thought. At least he had the personality to keep them going, right?

Already feeling his shirt sticking to his body, Scout sighed loudly and sat down in the meagre shade provided by the blanket over their heads. It turned out the sand was still hot enough to near enough scorch his ass upon contact, and so he furiously stood up again, shoving his hands into his back pockets so that he could rub the offended rear. Sniper, at least, had had the sense to collect another blanket, first, and was sat cross-legged prodding the fire with a metal tool held in his gloved hand. The pan and fire were distant enough that smoke would not collect in their makeshift shelter, but close enough that the smell was beginning to make Scout's mouth water.

"Man, how long until that's ready?" he asked impatiently, still stood up. He refused to find something to sit on for the sake of his recently tarnished pride.

"Couple of minutes," Sniper grunted back, turning the bacon over with the prong. "Find us some eggs, would you? Only one each for now."

Somehow, impatience made a meal taste all that sweeter, even if it was rather small in size. When the food was finally ready, Scout managed to finish his in about a minute, give or take, simply choosing to shove it all into his mouth after a burst of hunger. Sniper was, perhaps surprisingly, quite the opposite, clearly taking the time to appreciate the meal and even using a knife and fork to cut it. Manners cost nothing, after all, and he was the politest assassin around (in his own opinion).

Then came the _boredom_.


	2. In a Flash

Scout resorted to lying flat on his back upon what looked horribly like a throw-rug made from dingo skin, but he did not particularly care at that moment in time. For an hour he had searched the surrounding land for one of the famous kangaroo rats so that he could catch it and and use both it and Sniper purely as the base of a joke, but there were no rodents to be seen. Instead, he had come back and sat down beneath the shelter in order to practice various jokes on the other man, rocking back and forth in his boredom, but Sniper had either been ignoring him or had tuned him out completely as he smoked another cigarette.

The heat was growing to an unbearable extent. Though the sunlight was shielded away, the shelter did nothing to help with anything else. Scout's skin was slick with sweat and growing redder by the minute, almost reaching the same colour as his sodden shirt. It was like lying down in an oven, but far less claustrophobic – which was the one good thing he could think of, given the situation. With a raspy moan, he tried to move his head only to find it heavier than usual, and it suddenly felt like his brain was floating freely about in his skull. Maybe he really _was_ hungover.

It was only a moment later when he felt himself slightly elevated that he managed to focus. Sniper had the boy's head on his knee and was fanning his face with a magazine, and with his other hand he was pouring a little water over his reddened face.

“Guh ...” Scout said, reaching for the water with his tongue.

“You alright, lad?”

“Am I dreamin'? Tell me I'm dreamin', man. Are we still in the desert?”

Sniper's lips pressed together and he resumed fanning the other man's face, pausing only to wipe sweat from his own brow. “Yeah. Sorry, mate. I think your little adventure out there pokin' among the rocks probably wasn't a good idea. Ya took a bit of a funny turn.”

Scout managed to sit up and rub his head. How long had it been since he woke up that morning? All of about three hours? How was he going to survive this place? His worry must have shown in his face, because he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder and give it a slight but encouraging shake. He did feel a bit better, now, thanks to his companion's intervention. Maybe this choking heat wouldn't be the end of him, after all.

“I should've said this before, but keep as much of your skin covered as ya can, and keep that hat on,” the older man continued, still fanning Scout with the magazine. (Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an old and crumpled Playboy issue.)

After a few minutes, Scout was able to push himself up into a seated position and quickly drain the bottle of water offered to him by Sniper. The fogginess in his head cleared and he could recognise the stupidity of his actions – but how was he meant to know better? He grew up in Boston, not the goddamn Sahara Desert, and his home city was a _different_ kind of dangerous. Despite the help afforded to him by Sniper, the younger man couldn't help but feel somewhat resentful that he had not been warned beforehand and had made a fool of himself as a result. Scout roughly pushed away the arm still fanning him and stood up to yank open the van door, disappearing inside to sit with his arms folded and feet kicked up on the dashboard.

Sniper was wise enough not to follow. In the wing mirror, Scout could see him muttering under his breath and turning to flop down back under the makeshift shade. With nothing else to do and boredom seeping in, there was little choice but to sleep the hours and heat away. It was only later, when he could once again smell food cooking over an open fire, that the boy dragged himself out of the passenger seat and wordlessly sat by the assassin, having cooled off in both senses of the word.

“Afternoon, princess,” Sniper greeted. It was unclear just what the bitter edge to his tone was directed at, though Scout could take an educated guess.

“Look, thanks for helpin' me, right? But you shoulda warned me beforehand about that kinda crap. I mean, jeez, I run around all day roastin' and killin' guys, and I'm fine.”

“That's different. You've got Medic, you've got the air con back at base, and you're getting' shot at. Adrenaline is rushin', you're not gonna be worrying about the heat. Just use your brain, lad, and come back in the shade when you start gettin' boiled alive. But, yeah, I should've called you back and warned ya. Just stick with me and you'll be alright.” Sniper leaned forwards and spooned some baked beans from the pot into two ceramic bowls. “By the by, the kangaroo rats will come out when it cools down, 'cause apparently they've got more sense than any Scouts that pass through here. If you're gonna catch one, then catch the fattest and we'll roast it proper for dinner.”

“Dude, that's gross! Ain't no way I'm eatin' a freakin' _rat_. I'm not catchin' nothin', I just wanna get back to base and order the biggest pizza of my life and down some cold beers. Speakin' a'which, you got any -”

“Yeah, but you're not havin' any. Beer will just dehydrate you more. We'll save it as a last resort.” With that, he handed Scout's bowl to him before tucking into his own dinner. The younger man prodded miserably at the beans before reluctantly beginning to eat them. He realised that it was better than nothing, but still … he wanted pizza, he wanted beer, and he wanted to know just what the hell had happened last night. Still, despite his frustration, he could have been stuck out here with Pyro. He'd likely already be dead.

As the afternoon drew on, the desert air became less stifling. It was still hot, without a doubt, but now the Sun had tucked itself behind one of the dark mountains, the temperature quickly became more tolerable, something closer to what they endured every day fighting out in the various deserts they were posted to regularly. Watered, fed, and smothered with a cooling after-sun lotion, Scout's mood picked up considerably. They'd be home by the morning and they could forget the entire ordeal (if the Administrator let them, of course).

With a cigarette hanging between his lips, Sniper lifted the bonnet of the van and inspected the engine, idly puffing away as he checked the pipes and connections with a practiced eye.

“She looks pretty good, considerin'. We can probably start out. Give us a helpin' hand and dump our stuff inside, will ya?”

Scout didn't need to be told twice. Without a single complaint, the young man darted to and fro, throwing the fishing poles and blankets back into Sniper's small abode. He even drained the last of the coffee into his companion's favourite mug for him to finish off before dropping himself into the passenger seat with a toothy grin.

“C'mon, old man. What're ya waitin' for?”

Sniper mumbled something unintelligible before sliding into the driver's seat. With a relaxed pace did he finish off his cigarette and then drink the last of the coffee. Finally, just before Scout was about to demand he hurry up, he attempted to start the engine. For a few terrible moments, it seemed as if the van was simply going to splutter and choke continuously, but after multiple attempts, the familiar hum of the engine coming to life filled the two men with a silent relief.

The van turned with the crunching of stones and sand beneath its wheels. Before long, they were going full pelt along the flat, dry floor of the desolate valley, and Scout laughed as he removed his hat and allowed the breeze to ruffle his hair. In that moment, there was no greater feeling than _wind_. The two lapsed into a calm silence. It was usually silence with Sniper, for he could be pretty reserved, sometimes, but it was usually a comfortable kind of quiet. They had been fighting alongside each other for years, now, and though their relationship could be rocky, it had smoothened out when given some time. Though they could not be further apart on the battlefield, their roles were intrinsic to each other, and it was something they both had come to appreciate, even if they never voiced it.

“Yo, Snipes,” Scout said at last, breaking the silence. Sniper said nothing to indicate he was listening, but the boy continued, regardless. “I just wanted to say, uh ...” He rubbed the back of his head. “Y'know when you told me that thing about ya the other day and I laughed about it? I just wanted to say that I'm, uh … I didn't mean ta laugh, right? It just kinda came out. I mean, you got mad, it's cool, I deserved it.”

“You probably din't deserve Sharpy down your neck,” Sniper said after a brief pause. 'Sharpy' was the pet name for his kukri. Scout nodded quickly in agreement.

“Yeah, right. That sucked, but, uh, I guess it's all been pretty tough on ya. I don't really think it's funny you're from New Zealand – though it kinda was at the time, right, 'cause you were always talkin'bout Australia all patriotic, like, then it just turned out you're from that lost civilisation of nerds.”

“Me _real_ parents were Australian, I was raised in Australia, I've got an Australian passport. I'm not a fancy genius and I'm definitely not _dead_. You can take the idea that I'm one of them out of your tiny skull right now, or I'll drop you off here.”

“Right, right, I jus' wanted to say sorry, guy.”

“Piss poor apology, mate, but 'ppreciate it,” Sniper muttered, glancing at Scout and offering a small smile.

“It's cool, but I wanted to ask, uh … What was it like bein' dead for twelve hours? I mean, not that I'm _scared_ , jeez, just wonderin'.”

“Well, the pain was gone. That's what I noticed first. Then I kinda woke up in front of St. Peter but he was just leanin' on his desk all bored. Didn't even look through my file properly, or even _at_ me, just let me in so he could deal with the next thousand people who had just dropped in front of 'im. And waitin' for me on the other side of the gates were me parents. I mean ...” Sniper's low voice trailed off, and he briefly released the wheel with one hand to rub a spot just behind his sunglasses. “Before I died, I was scared, I'll admit. It was slow. Now, I don't fear any of that. I know what's waitin' for me when I go.”

“Damn,” Scout replied, a dawning awe in his features. “So I got no reason to be scared of anythin', right?”

There came another silence. Though Scout was looking out his window, he could feel Sniper's gaze upon him, however briefly. There was a quiet sigh.

“I'm no good at this kind of stuff. All I can say is that me and the other blokes have got a little time left, in the scheme of things. You've got all yours ahead of ya. Don't be thinkin' about what's on the other side jus' yet – go out and see the world before kickin' it. Forge some happiness for yaself and all that. I'll make sure you get out of here alive, kiddo. What kinda bushman would I be if I didn't?”

Another silence.

“Dude, I've gotta go. Got a jar?” Scout asked, fidgeting. The contemplative atmosphere was immediately shattered, and Sniper bared his teeth in a sneer.

“Couldn't ya have gone back when we were outside? I don't mind having me own piss on board, but someone else's? Don't want people thinkin' I'm some kinda piss-hoardin' weirdo -”

“Alright, then stop the van! Jeez!”

The camper stopped a little too harshly, sending Scout flat against the dashboard, but he did not even stop to complain, immediately clambering out into the desert. Finding an appropriately sized rock to stand behind, he relieved himself, peering over the top of the stone to watch Sniper stand alone to one side of the van, eyes turned to the heavens. For whatever reason, he had his rifle to hand, slung over his back. When Scout finished, he headed back and waved in his companion's direction.

“Yo, what's up?” he said impatiently, opening the door to his side of the van. “Let's go!”

In the distance, there came the unthinkable: a rumble of what sounded like _thunder_. Though the day was drawing into evening, the sky was still darker than it perhaps should have been, and Scout realised why Sniper was looking upwards with a stoic frown. It looked like a storm was forming in the direction they were heading, the sky ahead gradually growing darker and darker, easing the heat and turning the desert a neat shade of blue. What was alarming was how swiftly the atmosphere was changing, and Scout recalled from school how chaotic a desert's climate could be, given the right circumstances. He was impressed that he remembered that much. 

Sniper calmly turned and made his way back to the van. Scout followed him inside, watching the assassin unsurely. He was urging the vehicle into life with little success, and seemed to be growing more and more frustrated by the second, eventually slamming his forearm on the wheel with a snarl as the van spluttered its reluctance to move.

"C'mon, c'mon, fuckin' move," Sniper growled, glancing angrily between the ignition and the path ahead.

"It's just a storm, right?" Scout asked meekly, hating how naive he sounded.

"Sure, but we're on a slope. We passed a fork a while back. Going the other way would've been impossible for the ol' girl, so had no choice but to take the narrower path. Put those things together and we're in a death trap if a flash flood comes our way."

Scout gulped. "Flash flood?!"

"Yeah. The valley's notorious for 'em. The base is right in the path of some, stupidly enough, so they dug trenches to keep 'em away."

The engine came to life. Sniper wasted no time in slamming his heel down to send them rocketing forwards. As they soared through the valley, Scout held onto both the window ledge and the back of his seat, clinging on for dear life as the van made some dangerous swerves to get out of danger. Rain began to hit the windscreen, and it wasn't starting light, instead dropping down like Heaven had a sudden and explosive leak. Eventually, the sloped ground they were travelling up seemed to level out, though it was starting to get hard to tell, for Scout was forced to wind up his window to avoid getting completely drenched. In fact, it was getting near impossible to see out of the windscreen, no matter how fast the wipers were going.

"I can't bloody believe this," Sniper muttered, leaning out the window and holding onto his hat as he did, trying to get a clear sight of what was ahead. "Did you see that? Right out of nowhere! I've never seen anything like it!" A flash of lightning, and the van swerved. It gave a violent lurch as they drove over uneven ground. Meanwhile, Scout was still clinging tightly on to whatever was sturdy enough to hold him fast, eyes wide.

"I don't like this, dude," the younger man managed, once again rolling down his window to try and help out. He could see water running past them on the ground. There must have been a storm here not too long ago for there to be such an abundance of water - and what was worse was that the liquid was clearly fouled by something, so it was not worth collecting and keeping in case they ran out of drinking water. No wonder Badwater Basin was named such.

Closer to his side was the rocky side of a mountain they had been passing for some time. It was sheer from his vantage point, and water was beginning to pour down over the side.

"Sniper -"

Rocks came tumbling over. They weren't small. Loosened and driven by the sudden onslaught of heavy rain, down they came, thumping heavily down onto the bonnet of the van. It was enough to startle Sniper and force him to turn the van, but with the ground beneath them having become rocky, uneven, and far more slippery, the camper turned more violently than he intended, the back of it swerving until the side slammed into a rocky outcrop. Scout was unfortunate enough to be on the affected side, and the last thing he saw was the windscreen shattering.

Sniper's voice rang in his ears, and the world went black.

\--

Damn, what the hell had happened? He'd just been having a piss, right?

For some reason, he was underwater, swimming around in some endless ocean without direction. It was kind of weird that he could breathe, but, hell, anything seemed to be possible these days.

His Ma was there, too, but she wasn't paying any attention to him. He tried to shout and wave when he saw her in the distance, but she could not seem to remove her gaze from the shadowy figure at her side. All the more, all he could do was gurgle and send bubbles surging out his mouth. Oddly enough, the shadowy figure seemed to hear him, and it slowly turned its head. There was a flash of blue eyes, and then a toxic grin. _French son of a -_

Scout sat bolt upright. The ocean was gone, to be replaced by desert, instead. He was not sure which was worse.

 


	3. The Way Back

It took him some time to calm himself and take in his surroundings. He was outside on a soft bedroll, covered with a tower of blankets, which was probably for the best – there was a fresh chill to the night air, and … his shirt was missing?

Spying it hanging outside of one of the camper's windows, he shakily got to his feet and felt it. It was sopping wet, but smelt clean with detergent. Even so, there were specks of dried blood on one of the shoulders. The right one, the side of his head that he hit in the accident. Right, that was why he felt like crap!

The boy moved to sit back down on the bedroll, drawing the blankets up to cover himself before gently touching the side of his head. It didn't hurt much, but he felt pretty sick and nauseous with it, enough that he chose to lie down and succumb to sleep, only just managing to hold in the contents of his stomach.

Well, almost. He woke up next to a wet mess of his own puke, though he had thankfully missed the bedroll. With a groan, he sat up and held his head in his hands before glancing up. The sky had cleared, and the darkness was tinged with a vibrant orange as morning threatened. Had he really been out for the entire night? Scout took a moment to admire the stars, feeling too sick to move and silently dreading the heat of the day ahead. Still, it seemed as if they had made some progress during the night, for he was pretty certain the environment had changed somewhat. It was dry, leastways, compared to the nightmare they had endured hours prior.

The camper was in a state. Brown grime now coated the exterior. The windscreen was mostly gone, save for some sharp shards of glass that had stubbornly remained in the seal, as was the passenger side window. A nasty dent marred the side that had hit the rocks. How had so much damage occurred in such a short amount of time? He was sure he didn't know the half of it – after all, he had spent the rest of the journey unconscious, as far as he could tell. 

There was a more pressing matter, however. Morning was coming and there was no base in sight. 

Scout wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and stood up, blearily making his way to the ajar side-door of the van. Sniper was sat on the floor amidst a great mess of objects that had come flying off the units and shelves during the impact, though that was not the focus of his concentration. On his lap was a small radio, and he was crossing two wires to get the broken thing to start working. However, the more he twisted the dial, the worse the interference became. 

“That's what mine sounded like,” Scout said, causing Sniper to flinch slightly in surprise, his concentration broken. The older man looked up. His hat was missing and his sunglasses were perched on his mess of dark hair, revealing shadowed eyes and various grazes on the skin of his face. Worse were the afflictions on his hands, however, which were still bleeding, but he seemed to pay them no mind. 

“I don't get it, mate. We should be able to pick up somethin' with a base somewhere 'round here,” Sniper murmured, shaking his head. “How're you feelin'?”

“Uh, pretty gross, not gonna lie. The van's still workin', right? We're not stuck here?”

“It's workin', but I could only drive long enough to get us outta danger. I had to fix you up and let you sleep. Ya took a pretty bad knock.” Sniper looked down at the radio, still turning the dial despite the futility of it. “Sorry, kiddo. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was nothin' that I coulda predicted.” Quickly losing his temper with the old device in his hands, he tossed it to one side with a grunt and painstakingly got to his feet, clearly sore. “Your shirt should be dry enough by now. Thought I'd give it a clean while you were under. I know how fussy ya get.”

Red-faced, Scout moved to grab his shirt from the window and slipped it over his head. “Didn't have to do that, guy.”

Sniper followed him outside and began rolling up the blankets, though kept one spare, tossing it at his companion without explanation. It was clear enough why, however: it was still chilly and all Scout had on was his uniform shirt. The younger man pulled himself into the passenger seat and rested his head back, closing his eyes. Despite having slept through the night, his eyelids still felt heavy, and his brain felt like it was spinning within his skull. He did not see the concerned look Sniper shot him when he was joined in the cab, nor hear the revving of the battered engine. 

From there, it was fairly smooth sailing. Scout woke up every so often and took note of the daylight. When late morning came and the heat increased tenfold, Sniper parked the camper within a large hollow in the face of a valley wall, hoping to keep the sun off both them and the van. Still, the nature of the valley meant that the heat became trapped within it and the van was quickly becoming an oven as the hours drew on. With a reluctant grunt, Scout felt himself being lifted out of his seat and further into the shade, where he was made comfortable with a pillow and thin blanket. He smacked his dry lips and was immediately offered water. Once settled, he opened his mouth to thank Sniper, though couldn't quite forsake his pride enough to say it. It was embarrassing enough that he needed the other man's help, and it frustrated him more than anything.

Again, he slept.

By the time he woke up, what he could see of the sky was dark. There was a dish of cold beans and a bottle of water waiting beside him, and there was a cool, wet flannel on his forehead. Sitting up, he realised how goddamn hungry he was and swiftly devoured the meagre meal. He felt much better upon finishing it, his head no longer sore and hazy with only a little twinge every now and then when he turned it. After finishing his water, he turned on his butt to see Sniper knelt at the entrance to the little hollow in the rock, rifle in hand with the barrel resting on the sand. 

“Do you ever fuckin' sleep?” Scout asked brazenly. 

“I slept when you did,” came the response, and it was immediate and gruff enough to indicate that the other man was lying. 

“Alright, jeez. I don't care whatcha do.” Standing, Scout went to take his dish back into the van, though he stopped when he saw the skin of his arm glisten in the light of the cool moon. So, that was why his sunburnt skin was no longer bothering him – not that he had noticed until now. His skin was coated with after-sun, and in his irritable state, he found it annoyed him more than anything. “Dude, you rubbin' stuff on me in my sleep? Care to, y'know, ask first next time? Or were ya -”

“Listen here, you ungrateful little gobshite,” Sniper snapped immediately, obviously matching the boy's current mood. He abruptly stood and rounded on Scout. “I had to sit here watchin' your gross little body roast 'cause you didn't have the energy to do anythin' about it. Don't turn this into something it ain't.”

Scout backed away and grinned, hands raised in mock surrender. There was malice behind his smirk, however, for the truth of the matter was that he was frazzled, frustrated, aching, and had nobody else to vent his anger out on. His anger was, unfortunately, of the verbal sort, and a part of him got off on seeing somebody else begin to match how he was feeling. He wasn't alone in it, that way, and didn't feel so unreasonable.  


“Whoa, okay, but ya wouldn't have had to if you hadn't crashed the freakin' van,” the boy retorted, smiling in outrage. “Or did ya do that on purpose?”

Sniper's shoulders slowly moved as he took a deep breath. He had suffered the heat of the day, his hands were all cut up and sore, and he was clearly on the verge of losing that awesome temper of his, though Scout was forgetting, unwisely, just who that temper was going to be unleashed on. Unsatisfied and growing increasingly upset with the fact they were  _still in the freakin' desert_ , Scout moved forwards and pushed the other man's shoulders. Sniper barely moved, but his fists quickly clenched.

“Yeah, that's right! It's your fault we're still stuck out here! You drove us out here in some drunken mess, then sent us headlong into some dumb thunderstorm that almost killed me! We're gonna run outta water and be stuck with your crappy cold beans, then we're gonna die in the middle of nowhere. My Ma is waitin' for me at home, you gotta get me outta here, dude! You've got no idea how thirsty I am!”

The boy dashed into the darkness of the van without warning. Pulling the five gallon bottle out from the corner, he unscrewed the lid and tipped it towards his mouth, angry and desperate to ease his parched throat. The bottle only being half full by this point, it was easy enough to tip a good portion of the liquid into his mouth and down his shirt.

The bottle was yanked away from him in an instant. Sniper quickly tipped it back to try and conserve as much of the precious liquid within as possible, tightening the lid with haste. For his efforts, he received a hard shove and Scout attempted to push past him, swearing and cursing as he went.

An embarrassing yelp was forced out of the younger man when the collar of his shirt was grabbed and he was pulled up onto his tiptoes. This close up, Scout could see that one of the lenses on Sniper's sunglasses was cracked, and the other man's skin was red raw from prolonged exposure to the sun. He tried to pull those solid hands away from him, to no avail: Sniper was taller and stronger and  _oh jeez_ , a skilled and merciless assassin when the time called for it – which was  _always_ .

“You'd best start settlin' down, you poxy bloody weasel,” came the low, gravelly threat, and it was a hundred percent worse than any kind of shouting or violence. “D'you think I really care if you kark it? I don't, but whose balls are gonna be on the line if I get back there without you, eh? I took you out of that fuckin' rubble with my bare hands. I've fed you and kept ya cool enough to keep functioning. I advise that you do _not_ piss me off, unless ya want me to be sendin' your mum back your sand-stuffed corpse. I fancy a little taxidermy from time to time. Pleasant way to waste the hours trapped out here -”

“Alright!” Scout protested, still struggling with the hands gripping him. “Get the hell off me and take a nap, old guy!”

One of Sniper's temples throbbed and it was clear by the furious flash in his eyes there were many ways he wanted to respond, settling with, “I would, but I can't, 'cause every time I try, all I can hear is you mutterin' in your sleep. Whinging on and on, like always. Can't bloody get away from it.”

The boy immediately stopped struggling, staring up at Sniper along the thin bridge of his nose. His brow crinkled in confusion. “Huh?”

“Yeah, that's right. Always fuckin' moanin', never any gratitude. You've been bangin' on about your old man as of late. I almost shoved a beer down your gob just to shut you up, 'cause you're a handful when you're awake, let alone when you're unconscious. ”

Scout stared for a moment, his cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. Without warning, he began shoving his arms into Sniper's chest in an effort to get away from him.

It took a moment, but the two men eventually parted from each other. Scout went back to sit on his blanket, his back turned to the desert and Sniper. Had he really been talking in his sleep? Supposedly, he hadn't done that since he was  _ten_ , having grown out of the unconscious habit. It seemed about right, though, because he was in a stressful situation and he had been thinking about his Ma an awful lot as of late. There was only man who could take care of her proper, and that was her youngest son.  _Him_ . Not any of his useless brothers and especially not that slimy, good-for-nothin' Spy.

There was little time to focus on his thoughts and growing sense of guilt. He was not called back, but there came a threatening rev from the camper signalling that it was time to go. The sopping wet stains down his chest were a symbol of his shame, and when he climbed reluctantly into the passenger seat, his head was hanging and refused to look Sniper's way. He did eventually mumble an apology just loud enough to avoid being drowned out by the sound of the engine as they drove, realising that, if anything, it was pretty dumb to have touched their one source of clean water and waste far too much of it. As predicted, he received no response. Sniper's eyes were set on the endless planes ahead and refused to move from them.

“Look, I said I'm sorry, okay?” said Scout, determined to break the horribly uncomfortable silence. “I didn't mean to push you or nothin'.”

“Nah. I deserved that one.”

“Nuh, you didn't. I've been a real jerk. I'm just, like ...” Scout gestured loosely with his hand. “Was I really, uh ...” his voice lowered, “talkin' in my sleep? About my Pa? What was I sayin'?”

Sniper inhaled deeply through his nose and sighed like he found the topic was too awkward. He wasn't the sort to be cut out for this kind of thing.

“Got no business in talkin' about it,” the assassin grunted. “It was pretty sad, mate.”

There was a small pause, then Scout piped up again, a feigned cheer to his tone.

“Hey, you're an older guy – if you had a kid and a wife, you'd go back to 'em, right? No matter what? They'd be your family, right? 'Cause I know I would. I'm in somethin' 'til the end. I don't just give up. If I have a kid, his daddy ain't ever gonna be a quitter. I'll play ball with him every day and all that, no matter what.”

“Your old man's not coming back, kiddo,” Sniper replied, his tone blunt. “But you're right, you can make up for that, one day. Better yet, send your kid my way and I'll make a crack shot out of 'em. You remember the first time we met, right?”

Scout thought for a moment, then his forced smile suddenly became genuine, and he guffawed with a hard slap to his knee. 

“Yeah – yeah! I hit you with my ball 'cause I aimed bad, then you threw it back so hard you knocked me straight out! Yeah, that was great!”

“Right. Now, let's not beat around the bush, mate. Waste any more water like that again and I'll make sure I plug your eye socket with the ball, next time.”

Scout quickly fell into silence, it becoming more than evident that Sniper was done with both him and the conversation – and he did not doubt that the threat was spoken with utter sincerity. The boy sighed and pulled his blanket around his shoulders to comfort himself with the warmth. Though devastated to have heard he had relinquished some  _personal_ issues in his sleep, it had been kind of nice to express his thoughts on the matter, even if his listener could not be more reluctant. His problems were more than often mocked, him being by far the youngest member of the team, and he was never taken seriously when he was just a kid in their eyes. All he could do was feel angry as a result.

He sniffed. When he felt Sniper's eyes boring into him, he turned to look out of his broken window.

“Are you cryin'?”

“Me? Nah! Jeez! Do I look like a girl to you, man?” Scout said furiously, nonchalantly kicking his feet up onto the dashboard. They were quickly removed upon receiving a hard slap to the shin.

“Feet off, gremlin.” There was a pause, during which Sniper retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There was only one left, but he lit it up regardless. “Kid, I said I'd get you out of here. You'll go back to your mum's during the holidays. Stop frettin' and buckle up, we're almost there.”

He put his foot down. The van gurgled reluctantly upon the sudden change in pace, but Sniper did not relent, and Scout could see why. Their surroundings were growing even duller, if possible, and more familiar. The ground was turning a ghostly white as they reached the salty planes of Badwater. The boy sat up straight and grinned from ear to ear. He recognised this spot! Him and the guys would play ball there because of how open it was, and it wasn't far from the base. From what he could remember, they could see the base from there in the distance. Or, at least, they  _used_ to be able to.

“Uh,” Scout began, squinting his eyes to try and see ahead. It was dark and the van's lights made it difficult, but still, even at night, it should have been easy to see the warm light of the base's windows. There was nothing. “We're in the right spot, yeah?”

He received no answer. Minutes later, Sniper brought the van to a slow stop, gazing with a blank expression upon the desolate space before them. The Badwater base had been situated in a large crater of sorts, and the very same natural bowl was there before their very eyes.

There were no buildings or any sign of life in sight.


	4. A Devil in BLU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains implied drug abuse and suicide mentions.

_Dear Ma,_

~~_I'm not sure how to_ ~~

_I'm really sorry, kay._

_I think I'm gonna die right so I just wanted to say that I'm not angry at you or nothing. Remember we was arguing all the time before I left? Yeah, I didn't mean anything I said. Hey, you know me! Wanted to say thanks, too, for y'know, being my Ma and all that. I'm not good with words, but ~~I love you a ton~~ I'm gonna miss you a ton, alright? Just take care of yourself and do me a favour, right, ditch that creepy Spy before he tears your heart out, and don't have any more kids to replace me._

_Love,_

_Genie_

“Genie?”

Scout quickly pulled the letter to his chest and scowled over his shoulder at Sniper, who was knelt by the prone boy and had obviously been reading the heartfelt words on the sly.

“Leave off, man. My name's Eugene, aight?” Moving into a seated position against a cupboard within the van, he positioned his letter on his raised thighs and made sure that it couldn't be read again. Oddly enough, he felt fairly comfortable having shared his identity at long last. Aside from Spy, Sniper was now the only team member who knew his name. “Haven't you got anyone to be writing a letter to?”

Sniper lowered himself back against the locker underneath his bunk, sipping at his beer as he went. “Nah.”

Scout shuffled a little and wiped his brow. The morning had brought the dreaded heat, but neither of them had ventured outside upon the dawn. What was the point? They had beer and shelter, all a man needed during his final hours. Hell, a desert was the last thing that he wanted to look at (though the cramped insides of Sniper's van weren't much better).

“Oh, right. Uh, think you can write a letter to Miss Pauling for me?”

“Me? Crikey.”

“C'mon, it won't be hard! She's pretty cute, right?”

Sniper scratched the back of his head. “Er, I guess.”

After tearing off the back of a cereal box to expose the plain inside, Scout tossed a pen at Sniper, who reluctantly took it and the piece of card to stare down at them hopelessly. Still, he had to be better with women than Scout himself, given his age. The younger man had found Sniper's collection of old photographs and had been looking through them every so often, noting with some degree of hope that his companion was a bit of a looker in his youth and must have had ladies crawling over him. There was one, in particular, that had caught his interest, and he held it up as Sniper leant on his knee and began to write.

The photograph was black and white and a little blurry, but one of the men stood in it was clearly a twenty-something year old Sniper, given the rifle and shit-eating grin. He was not wearing a shirt but was instead coated with an ochre paint substance of an unknown colour, and his face was dotted with it in patterns. To his side was another man who must have been around Scout's age, and he too was adorned with the paint.

“There was an Australium infused 'roo loose in the Outback,” Sniper explained, glancing very briefly at the photo with a frown. “The monster was terrorising an Aborigine tribe in particular. I was passin' through at the time 'cause I sometimes visited 'em, and agreed to help track it down and kill it.” He paused in his writing to take another good chug of beer, something a little odd about his demeanour. It was clearly a memory that was far from pleasant given his sour expression.

“Who's the dude?” Scout asked, shuffling forwards with uncharacteristic interest.

“I was looking to get out of that area at the time. Wanted to go other places, see new things, but the towns needed someone keepin' the influx of mutant 'roos at bay. I started trainin' up some kid. Spent a whole year gettin' to the point I could bring 'im with me to track the more dangerous animals. That was our first mission together, and our last.” Another pause, during which Sniper resumed writing on Scout's behalf. “The native warriors had decided to search a nearby lake for the creature. It was a clever thing, though, 'cause of the Australium, and decided to ambush me and the kid once the others were gone. Despite all I had taught the wanker, he made a run for it and left me to face it on me own.”

Scout shuffled closer again, eyes wide. “Holy crap! What happened?”

“It tore me to shreds. Would've died if not for the natives. They managed to kill it, tough bastards, and as for the kid, I never saw nor heard from 'im again.”

Placing the photograph back in its spot in the small folder, Scout began rifling through the others, sensing that he'd be met with a terse insult if he continued prying. The photos mostly consisted of Sniper with his parents, Sniper stood near infamous landmarks around the world, Sniper by monstrous animals that he had tracked and killed on behalf of those they were terrorising. Always grinning, even if a bit cut up, and there was a distinct lack of bitterness in his expression, unlike now. Scout wondered just who the people were on the other side of the camera, but decided it wiser not to ask. Sniper was all about his work and rarely divulged anything about his personal life, always saying that there was little to it other than what the guys saw every day.

Scout felt oddly jealous seeing all the vibrant and unique places in the photographs. He'd never been outside the States, mostly because his Ma couldn't afford it and the thought of other cultures and cities weirded him out a bit. In the face of death, he found himself regretting the fact he'd never had a real adventure. Beating people up and shooting them for a living had always been enough until now.

“Why's the base gone, Snipes?” he asked eventually, placing the folder back into the small locker he had found it in.

“I don't know, mate.”

Once the letter was finished, Scout found it being tossed his way. He was initially disappointed with how short it was, because everything he wanted to say to Miss Pauling surely would have taken up the entirety of the cardboard, but still, he had not been able to face embarrassing himself, even if he would be dead when she eventually read it.

_Miss Pauling,_

_I never got the chance to say it, but I think that you're something special. You know that I'm bad with words and I always come across as an irritating scrote, but my intentions have always been good. I never really got the chance to find my place in the world, but if I'm sure about anything, it's you. Nothing got me through the day like the thought of you, miss._

_I know that I will never see you again, but you've got big things ahead of you and I wish you the best, because you're one in a million and deserve the best that life has to offer._

_Yours,_

_The RED Scout._

He read the letter in silence, then carefully reached up and placed it on one of the side-units where it would one day be found.

“Thanks, pal,” the boy said quietly, drawing his knees up to his chest. He would have just written plainly how he felt, but knowing of the lady's disinterest, perhaps a more subtle approach was the more respectful choice.

“No worries,” Sniper murmured, leaning forwards and ruffling Scout's hair with a smirk. “Listen, I wouldn't worry about it. Who you're with or not with – it doesn't define ya. You had a shot and ya did your best, but some things aren't meant to be. At least you can say you met her and you knew someone who made ya feel so great. Put it behind ya and look forwards.”

“Yeah, I dunno, man,” Scout replied, playfully pushing the other man's hand away. “At this point, lookin' forwards is kinda dumb, no offence.”

“Yeah, but so is lookin' back.”

The rest of the day was spent enjoying the last of the beers and food, for there was no use in conserving any of it when they would run out regardless. With acceptance of death came a strange looseness and even light-heartedness. The unbearable heat and the fear of never getting out alive would be over soon enough, and the beer and Sniper's secret stash of bambalacha were enough to keep Scout fairly distracted. He told Sniper, in the beginnings of intoxication, all about his brothers and his Ma, how he learnt to run because he was smaller and skinnier than the rest of them. He told him about how it had taken him ten months to apply for the job at RED because the company was initially only interested in hiring Olympic sprinter Dave Sime. It turned out that the Olympian was too old for the Scout role by that point, meaning the second best contender got the job. His Ma had never been so proud.

Hours later, when the day had cooled and the sun had set just past the mountains, Sniper and Scout sat in silence. Scattered around them were empty beer cans, magazines, a small bong, and several of Sniper's guns. The younger of the two men was silently deciding which would be the least painful to use on both himself and his companion.

After some time, Sniper awakened from his marijuana-induced stupor and clumsily loaded his rifle. It seemed that he had been suffering the exact same train of thought.

“Uh, you'll make it quick, right?” the boy asked tentatively, swallowing as he turned his back to the other man. He hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes in preparation.

“'Course, mate. See ya on the other side.”

Poor Scout's heart began thumping heavily in his chest. There came some sounds of preparation behind him, but then there was an awfully long silence during which the boy was able to contemplate just what he was doing. His fear got the better of him and he quickly scrambled out of the way, but when he turned, he realised there was no need. Sniper was stood with his rifle lowered and looking strangely lost, like he had never been faced with such a predicament.

“C'mon, big guy, ya said you'd make it quick!” Scout objected, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking the sand beneath his feet. He felt stupider by the minute, but this was likely more dignified than dying a slow death at the hands of the cruel mistress that was the desert. “C'mon, just get it over with, right? You're an assassin, can't be that hard!”

Sniper's throat bobbed in a hard swallow, and the barrel of his rifle dropped to the ground.

“I lied, mate. About that guy in the photograph. I saw him again, only it was through my scope, and he was none-the-wiser. Then, dead.”

Scout glanced up in shock. He wasn't exactly sure _why_ it shocked him, because he had seen the assassin kill countless mercenaries who worked for BLU – only their deaths were not true deaths, because respawn picked them up soon after and restored life to them. Perhaps that was it. Scout had never killed a person, not _properly_ , and he was suddenly more than aware that some of the other men he worked with _were_ trained killers. It frightened a more innocent part of his mind. Granted, that fright was soon overtaken with a sense of awe, as it usually was.

“You -” he began, staring at Sniper's weapon, though could not quite finish his sentence.

“Yeah. It was … unprofessional, to say the least. I swore to myself after that that I'd never kill a bloke outside of a job. I'll act on others' petty vengeance, but not my own. Ya know, killin' people like that, it's what makes a guy a crazed gunman. It's what me dad always called me. Looks like it's a promise I'll have to break for your sake."

Again, the rifle was pointing at him, but Scout was more disturbed by the amount of emotion on the assassin's face – or what he could see of it through the aviators. He raised his hands and shook his head, then slowly moved forwards and pushed the barrel of the gun down with his finger.

“Look, man, you don't have to do nothin', and to be honest, looks like you took one too many hits with the ol' pipe, know what I'm sayin'?” Scout subtly nudged the bong underneath the van. “Lie down and take a nap, 'kay? You'll feel better when ya wake up. I think.”

Sniper dropped his rifle to the ground and nodded blearily, muttering something about not being a crazed gunman and that the sand felt like a sea of needles. Still, he sat down against the wheel of the van and covered his face with his hat, obediently forcing himself into a well-deserved slumber. It was deep enough that he did not awaken even when his hands were finally being cleaned and bandaged to cover the wounds.

Scout felt like an idiot as he sought out the small first aid kit he knew was kept in the van somewhere, buried amongst who-knew-what. The ability to express his gratitude was not one that came easily to the young man, but sometimes it came out in odd ways, rarely verbally. Any thanks were futile, seeing as they were both dead men, but still … Few of them ever received thanks for their hard work, and he _was_ grateful that Sniper had been unable to put him out of his misery. It had to mean something, surely, when a guy like Sniper put down his rifle for his sake.

It was weird to think about it. He had been seconds from dying, and he really was going to meet his end in a couple of days.

Once done with Sniper's hands, Scout raced away and fell to his knees before barfing all the precious food he had consumed that day. Freakin' great.

His face pressed against the salty sand and he groaned, bringing his arms around his head in hopelessness. It was then he heard it: a quiet scampering sound. The boy quickly raised his head to see a rodent hopping towards a crevice in the dark rocks. A kangaroo rat! Was he hallucinating? He sure as hell felt sick enough for that to be the case, but he was going to chase it, regardless. Clambering to his feet, Scout quickly ran and attempted to scoop the frightened creature into his hands, only for it to aggressively wriggle its way out with a squeak and resume hopping away from him.

Scout ran. It felt fantastic. His head still hurt and his stomach was sore, but running was what he did best and he felt _great_. He was not entirely sure why he was chasing the animal – Sniper likely never would have appreciated the jokes he had planned – but then he remembered that the rat was something that they could cook and eat and it would be the greatest tasting thing ever.

He almost caught the tiny thing a number of times, but it either bit him or managed to elude him with more ease than he cared to admit. Growing increasingly frustrated, he sped up and dived and missed the rat by mere inches. His head throbbed and span, and the rat made a speedy getaway towards a cluster of rocks. Scout swore and slapped the ground with his palm before sitting up. Something else quickly caught his attention, however.

He smelt smoke, first, though faintly. More interesting was the light coming from a small distance away from within what looked like a small cave in the valley wall. It was orange and cast moving shadows, indicating a fire. Was there somebody else there? His heart performing an odd flip in his chest, Scout quickly stood and moved along the wall until he reached the cave. The smell of smoke became stronger as he gingerly moved his head past the entrance.

There was somebody in there, all right, but it did not make his situation any better. In fact, it made it a whole lot worse.

A man in what was usually a pristine blue suit, now dirtied, quickly turned his head and met Scout's eyes. He could hardly believe it!

There was a long silence in which the two mercenaries stared at each other, trying to ascertain whether the other man was real or not. Then, they both started to decide whether to kill each other or not, but why? They were not at work, and either could have had supplies that the other needed.

Scout moved himself into the entrance so that he was visible and held up his arms to indicate that he had no weapons on his person. Spy stood up and did the same, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette. The boy pointed at it.

“We need some a'those."

“We?” the BLU Spy enquired.

“Sniper. We thought it was just us out here. What the hell happened?”

Spy watched the boy with thoughtful eyes, taking a hard drag from his cigarette.

“I was about to ask you the same question. I awoke here last night with a few supplies,” he explained in that French-sounding drawl, the same cold edge to his tone that was so horribly familiar. Scout could feel the hairs on his arms rising just from listening to it, and a coiled, deep-seated anger threatened. The one good thing he could surmise from the situation was that the Spy was here and not with his Ma, but still … he hated the guy more than anybody in the entire world, and that was saying something. Scout hated a lot of people.

The urge to simply leave and leave Spy to his fate was near overwhelming, but the man had mentioned supplies, something they were in dire need of if there was any possibility of getting out of Death Valley. He tried to take a peek at the large backpack situated towards the back of the cave. It certainly didn't look like anything Spy would choose for himself, but rather something that he was left with to face the desert alone.

“What supplies you got?” Scout demanded.

“Only the necessities. It would last me a few days at the most. If you believe that I am willing to _share_ , then think again, boy.”

“Yeah, like we need it, frog,” the younger man scoffed, folding his arms across his chest and inspecting his fingernails with an air of feigned confidence. “I got Sniper, and he knows how to survive anywhere. We could just leave ya here to rot, y'know. Not like we've got any reason to help ya out.”

“Your Sniper is an imbecile under the pretence that he is sane,” came the hissed response, though Spy appeared momentarily uncertain, taking a reluctant step forwards. “I am not entirely sure how a loud-mouthed brat like you has survived in these barren wastelands. You do not know of the horrors that lie beneath the sands."

Scout felt a sudden chill. Quickly checking the outside of the cave, he then looked back at the BLU with a somewhat nervous expression.

“What? Quit trying to freak me out, frog, 'cause it ain't workin'.”

The Spy snorted with sudden laughter. “You truly do not know?”

“Yeah, uh, that's what you just said.”

Without any kind helpful explanation, the suited infiltrator picked up his heavy pack and hoisted it over his shoulder, smirking at Scout.

“Very well. Take me to the idiot and let's see if he can escort us to the visitor's centre that is eight miles south of here. I promise not to kill either of you until the journey is at an end.”

When Spy approached, Scout quickly moved out of the cave, not wanting to be particularly close to him. He despised him, right from the top of his stupid balaclava down to the tips of his fancy-ass polished shoes (which had somehow remained clean despite the environment).

“You're not killin' us _ever_ , yeah? There's really a tourist place so close? You're not just yankin' my chain? And what the hell do you mean with the whole 'horrors beneath the sands' thing?”

As he was marching away from Spy, he missed the rolled eyes he received in response as the assassin began to follow him.

“Yes, there is a centre on the southern edge of the bowl. No, I am not 'yanking your chain', you hooligan American. There has been a building there since before the bases were built and I imagine it is still in service, being the only one. Didn't you ever care to learn something about the natural phenomenon you fight in every day?”

“It's just some dumb desert, man. Do you remember anythin' from yesterday?” Scout asked. There was a pause, one which likely indicated that Spy was suffering the same amnesia that his RED adversaries were. Scout continued, “Well, okay. Me and Snipes have been out here for, uh ...” He counted on his fingers. “Like, three days, I think. It's kinda weird, right? It's like RED and BLU just got sick of us and decided to abandon us out here.”

The sky quickly clouded over, concealing the stars, and a gentle rain began to fall over the desert. The cool air it brought was great, but still stricken with memories of what had occurred last time it had rained, Scout didn't hear anything that Spy had to say next as he entered a swift run back to the van in a sudden panic.

Sniper was stood with a hand raised to shield his sunglasses from the rain, a somewhat dejected slump to the way he was stood. Upon seeing Scout, he lowered his hand and jogged forwards to approach the boy, even pulling him into a one-armed hug in his relief.

“Christ, mate. Thought you'd gone. Do that again and I'll fuckin' garrote ya.”

“Yeah, nah, ya can let go, now,” Scout assured him, giving him a small pat on the back before finding himself being pushed away. Sniper was already glaring at the approaching figure in the distance, and by the look of his scowl, he could tell who it was almost immediately. The assassin pulled his kukri out from the back of his belt and did not hesitate in attempting to approach.

He was halted by Scout, who grabbed him by his thick forearm and held him back.

“Hold up, big guy. He's got supplies. Don't kill 'im just yet, alright? He got dumped out here, just like we did.”

When Sniper and Spy were a couple of metres apart, they stood shock still and stared daggers at each other, each silently daring the other to make a move. Scout was bold enough to stand between them in an attempt to keep them from beating the hell out of each other, though he wouldn't have really minded watching that. Maybe some other time.

“Snipes, he's not armed, I swear. I wouldn't still be walkin' if he was.”

“Yeah?” the gunman retorted with a growl, slowly sliding the enormous kukri away with a furious curl to his lips. Easily pushing the boy out of the way, he reached forwards and plucked Spy's cigarette case from his pocket, taking his time in choosing one before returning it. “Looks like we found ourselves a rat after all. G'day, spook. Hell, am I _glad_ to see ya.”

“Likewise, bushman,” Spy said, his nasally tone dripping with derision. He went as far as to produce a lighter and ignite the tip of his adversary's cigarette as a reluctant gesture of peace – one which was, much to Spy's relief, apparently accepted with a few heavy puffs.

“Who's to say we won't just kill ya and take your stuff?”

“You are far too professional for that, Mr. Mundy. As for the boy, I am likely one of the few men he could force himself to resist from killing if it truly came down to it, even if I did stop associating with his mother over a year ago.”

Scout gaped at the Spy in disbelief, his face flushing red.

“Huh? Ya did? Have ya seen her? She's okay, right?”

“It was the last time I saw her. Her interest had wandered, and so had mine.” Spy turned back to Sniper and smiled that serpentine smile of his. “Back from the dead so soon, hm? And here I was hoping that you had actually died. What sweet relief that would have brought me! Tell me, bushman – was it that Hell was simply too terrifying for you? Was it filled with a thousand Frenchmen?”

“That would imply I'm scared of you, ya fancy prick,” Sniper snarled. Still, his failure to respond violently to Spy's provocations seemed to anger the other man, given the odd twitch to his forced smile.

Their argument continued for a good few minutes, during which Scout had sought his way into the pack and had found a pack of Cheetos in one of the pockets. Silently munching away, he continued searching, eventually finding a small compass attached to one of the many zippers. Oddly enough, the spinner didn't want to settle on one direction, even when held still, constantly spinning and trying to find which way was north without success. Similarly, when bandaging Sniper's hands earlier, he had noticed that the time was wrong, given the time of day. The guy was too efficient to have the wrong time on his watch.

Everything was adding up, but to what, he couldn't fathom. First, their mysterious appearance in the middle of nowhere. Their radios didn't work, and now the compass … And now the BLU Spy, of all people, had happened to turn up where they had been heading. Weirdest of all, the BLU and RED bases had simply vanished, as if they had never been there. A demolishing would have left some disturbance on the ground, at the very least.

And what had Spy meant when he spoke of horrors beneath the sand?


	5. Tremors

“We are leaving at once, bushman!”

Sniper, leaning against the side of his van, glanced at Spy briefly before idly resting his head back and expelling a stream of smoke from his mouth.

“Nah.”

Scout watched with dull amusement as the BLU mercenary bristled like a cat, the lithe man squaring his shoulders and approaching Sniper with a maddened look to his eyes. Spy was likely less amicable towards the heat than even Scout, let alone the rain and their current environment in general, and he refused to remove his balaclava and suit jacket. What was exposed of his skin was an angry red and moist with sweat and rainwater.

“Listen to me, you elongated sack of excrement,” he barked, prodding Sniper in the chest with one gloved finger, “we cannot stand here _waiting_ for tomorrow evening. We shall be dead before noon! Walking eight miles will take us several hours at most, so we may as well begin before morning comes. Being difficult for the sake of animosity will result in our untimely deaths at the hands of -”

“Christ, do you come with an off button? This is worse than when I took me mum into the Outback.” The assassin blew another stream of smoke, this time square into Spy's contorted face. “If we were infiltratin' god knows where, I'd shut up and listen to what you had to say, even if it went against my very fuckin' distinguished sense of morality. Guess what, spook? You're in my kingdom, now, so piss off and make yaself useful.”

For a moment, it seemed as if the Spy was going to react as it was clear he wanted to, though he managed to control himself, pulling back and straightening his tie with a slight roll of his eyes.

“Very well. On your head be it. What is mine is yours. I will add that you might appreciate the concept of a razor – you may have heard of such a thing – which you will find inside the supplies. I only say this because you appear more barbarian than gentleman, though, of course, that is nothing new.”

It was true; Sniper's usual five o'clock shadow had fledged into a dark scruff over the past few days, though that was hardly something of concern. Worse were the dark circles under his eyes, largely hidden by his orange aviators, but Scout knew that they were there, and he felt a twinge of worry. He knew that the assassin was not going to sleep with Spy around, but he was already working off little rest and faced leading them into the unknown. What if he made a mistake and ended up walking them into yet more desolate space? What if something happened to him before he could get them all out of there?

The boy rubbed his eyes, both out of tiredness and frustration, barely listening as the two other men continued bickering. He had never heard either of them _talk_ so much before. Used to the stoic silence of Sniper and even RED's spy, it began bugging him enough that he stood up and mumbled that he was going to bed and not to disturb him, then opening the side door to the van and slamming it shut as he went. His irritation largely went unnoticed, or so it seemed, because even as he clambered into Sniper's bunk, he could still hear them arguing outside.

Despite the noise, Scout managed to drift into sleep, completely exhausted. Sleeping was one of his favourite things to do at the moment. It passed the time, and sometimes he dreamt that he was anywhere but in the desert, maybe chilling with a nice, cold 'Bonk!' with his pals in Boston, or sometimes smashing heads in with his baseball bat. Yeah, it was nice, and sometimes Miss Pauling was there, too, which was even better. He could even smell her perfume, and hear her laughter -

A laughter that soon devolved into a horrific, hyena-like cackle, one with such a distinct and recognisable flair of utter _Frenchness_ that Scout moaned and realised that he had been rudely pulled back into reality. He rolled over and pulled the quilt over his head before running his hands through his hair out of frustration. A part of him had agreed with Spy when he'd said that it would be better to leave as soon as possible. He wanted to get back to civilisation and as far away from the BLU as he could. On the other hand, he could see the reasoning behind Sniper's caution. Rain being as sporadic as it was, it was better to be collecting it in the pots and pans outside to add to their low water reserves in case something went wrong and they were driven off course. Still, his patience was quickly wearing thin, and when the entire van jolted with a violent impact on one side, the boy lost his temper and slammed a fist on the wall before jumping down and yanking the door open, his hair in all directions and cheeks red with anger.

“Hey! Some of us are tryin' ta'sleep! Freakin' keep it down!”

Scout paused when faced with a scene more gory than expected. The sand was disturbed and splattered here and there with blood. A weapon that looked suspiciously like a stained butterfly knife was lying abandoned off to one side, and Scout's heart sank. Spy had lied, after all, though anybody who had not been expecting that was a grade-A idiot.

Sniper had managed to overpower Spy and had his kukri inches from the man's neck. His arm was shaking with the effort of trying to meet weapon with flesh, but Spy was putting up a decent fight, using his hands to keep the offending arm away with several loud curses here and there. His position underneath the assassin was awkward, and Scout could see that he was beginning to struggle, clearly exhausted from the heat.

“Who's a hairy wallaby, mate? Say it again,” Sniper dared with a snarl, pushing forwards and succeeding in pressing his blade against the other man's throat.

“You are both that and a raving lunatic!” Spy shouted in a strained tone. He winced and then snorted with laughter, his cigarette falling from his mouth to lay forgotten in the sand. “Temper, temper! You are a changed man ever since your parents were executed -”

Scout intervened before any more blood could be spilt. Knowing that it was likely an unwise move, he seized Sniper's shoulders regardless and pulled him back, falling on his own ass and wrapping his legs around the larger man's waist. The assassin struggled, growling with frustration as he tried to wriggle out of the boy's hold, but to his apparent dismay, he found himself stuck. Still, he did not aim his anger at Scout, instead falling still and glaring at Spy past his wonky sunglasses in a manner that suggested a slow and painful death by his own hands. Bound by Scout's arms and legs, that was all he could offer in response to their enemy's goading.

“C'mon, man,” Scout said, both urgency and annoyance in his tone. “You don't kill guys outside of your job, remember? Tune him out like ya do with everyone else!” He turned his attention to the BLU. “Why're ya bringin' up that crap now? Really, man?”

“Please, boy,” came the dry response. “I joined you for my own amusement. Our deaths here are inevitable if we stay much longer. This one in particular is already a dead man, so I may as well extract what enjoyment I can.”

Sniper spat in Spy's direction. The recipient's expression of absolute disgust would have caused Scout to laugh, usually, but he was far more concerned with something else. His hand was warm and wet, and when he lifted it from Sniper's abdomen, it was coated with the gross stickiness of blood. The butterfly knife! Without thinking, the boy unfurled himself and leapt upright in an attempt to charge towards his companion's assailant, but a hand grabbed his ankle and he fell flat on his face, spluttering when he inhaled a mouthful of salty sand.

“Get off!” he bellowed, scrabbling at the ground as he felt himself being pulled backwards and away from the smirking Spy by Sniper. “I'll kill 'im, dude! Ya want a new rug? Yeah, I'll make ya one! I don't even know how to freakin' sew but I'll do it!”

“Yeah, 'ppreciate it, but save your energy. Go find me the kit, would ya?”

It took him a moment, but Scout managed to tear his glare away from Spy and return to the van to turn the place upside down in search of anything that would help. The first aid kit was where he had left it, and he even found a small box of sewing needles and threads among the knitting stuff below the bunk. When he ventured outside, Spy was leaning against the van and staring at Sniper, who was apparently ignoring his grievous injury and busy inspecting the pots he had left out to collect water. Scout took the cue and retrieved the large bottle from the van to set it on the ground, quickly helping the assassin pour what they had collected inside.

“Snipes, how am I gonna – how are we gonna get outta here, now?” Scout asked, barely managing to control the slight wobble to his voice. Sniper frowned at him before slowly lowering himself onto the ground with a wince, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

“You're gonna do everythin' I tell ya, that's how,” he muttered, turning away in order to tend to his wound with some degree of privacy. “You've got ya legs, Scout. We're close enough to that centre that you could make it on ya own. _If_ it exists. If ya want me to walk with you, then we'll have to leave now.”

The boy dropped down beside Sniper and grabbed his shoulder, shaking it as if berating him for something. He could not quite form his words, and he stuttered incoherently for a moment, horrified by the notion of having to traverse the desert with only the BLU Spy for company. And, hell, if the bases were no longer there, then that meant that there was absolutely no way that any of them were getting respawned if they died. With a swallow, he quickly threaded a needle and stole Sniper's lighter from his pocket to sterilise it.

“Don't just give up, man. You've done more than this with your freakin' arms cut off. You remember that? Ya killed their Demoman with your teeth. I mean, jeez,” Scout attempted with a half-hearted grin.

“Sure, but perseverance ain't my job, mate. Patience, maybe, and careful hands. Perseverance is what _you_ do. Ya look ahead, evaluate the situation and keep runnin'. So, that's what ya need to do here, too. I know you're scared, but this is a battlefield where your enemies aren't livin' men. They're time and dehydration. Whenever I tell ya to run, kid, then you've gotta run, and I'll be coverin' you from a distance. Like always. Can ya handle that?”

Scout stared at Sniper. The older man showed no signs of fear. He was the picture of a guy who had nothing to lose, whereas Scout had _everything_ to lose. The boy leaned in and quickly worked the needle into his companion's skin. He was met with little resistance, as Sniper seemed more surprised than anything.

“What of it, guy? Alright, I lied, I can sew. I was always rippin' holes in my jeans. Watched Ma sew 'em up a few times. And, yeah, ya don't even need to ask if I can handle what's comin'. You remember who ya talkin' to, right?”

He received a small smile in response.

In preparation for the remainder of the journey, the water was divided into smaller bottles and flasks to make bearing the load of it far easier than carrying the five-gallon. All supplies were zipped up into the large pack that Spy was left responsible for, though when Sniper began to dish out weapons, the infiltrator was ignored. His butterfly knife was now resting in Scout's pocket and there it would stay lest the BLU attempted another murder – in which case it was agreed that there would be nothing wrong with killing him and stealing the supplies he had reluctantly handed over.

Scout was allowed Sniper's best SMG, a sleek little number that fit easily into the back of his belt. He also picked out a devastating-looking kukri with a stylish grip.

The older man approached a little while later with his rifle in his hands. He gazed down at it for a moment, skilled fingers moving along the chamber and the bolt, before sighing and offering forwards.

“Why?” Scout asked quickly. _Nobody_ was allowed to touch that rifle, and he briefly wondered if it was a cruel trick.

“Same reason you've got that SMG and that knife. Spy's likely gibberin' like a madman, but plenty of weird stuff has been goin' on. We don't know what's waitin' for us out there, if anythin'. You take Sheila 'cause she's simpler to use, and I'll use the Machina.”

There was no way Scout would ever use the Machina, even if faced with an army of Heavies and Medics. The lethal firepower offered by that goddess of a rifle meant that Sniper could pierce multiple bodies if they were stood closely enough in a row, but its kick was immense and it was _loud_. Without questioning his teammate further, he allowed him to attach the rifle scabbard before dropping its surprisingly hefty weight inside.

The other weapons were locked away in their cupboard and the key was hidden in an undisclosed place on Sniper's person. Spy was sat in the passenger side seat of the van by this point, glaring out across the desert with an irritated curl to his lips. When Sniper climbed in beside him, the two looked at each other like a pair of feuding wolves – at least until Scout somehow managed to ensconce himself between them, knees pulled up to his chest. He managed to remain vigilant for all of about five minutes until he was nodding off, the sting of his eyes quickly overwhelming him. His head hurt, too, and it was that which prevented him from falling into a deep sleep. He woke up on occasion, though kept his eyes shut, not wanting to miss out on anything that happened as they drove south to use up the last of the gas. When his head slowly drooped somewhere near (or on) Sniper's shoulder, Spy seemed to take that as an opportunity to break the silence.

“Have you a wife, Sniper?” the Frenchman asked suddenly, lighting two cigarettes. He held one out to the other man and ended up popping it into his mouth.

“You know I haven't,” came the flat reply.

“Ah, of course. A man who knits hats and scarves is not going to have a _wife_.”

Scout heard the quiet creak of hands tightening on the steering wheel. Deciding to maintain the illusion that he was asleep, he even released a small snore, wondering if he would hear anything interesting now that he was apparently dead to the world. There came no response to Spy's goading, as Sniper resumed silently puffing on the fancy cigarette that Spy had given him.

“I take it the boy did not write that letter to Miss Pauling?” the BLU continued, folding his arms across his chest. “It was far too eloquent. Hopeful lover as he is, he will never write like one.”

Scout could not quite catch the gist of the rather one-sided conversation, though he could feel Sniper growing increasingly tense. It was in rare form, for him, to become agitated so quickly, even when a Spy was involved, but the boy could hardly blame him. The derogatory tone to the Frenchman's voice was enough to make even his anger begin to bubble away in his chest.

Again failing to get a rise out of the Australian, Spy continued:

“So, according to the boy, you do not kill off the job. Strange. I have read otherwise. Adelaide-Yabber, 1954 – the first day of December, I believe. A murder of a young man of whom you were a good friend and then a suspect for his untimely death via ranged assassination. He must have been a very close friend for you to have abandoned your rules of conduct. It is always those dearest to us who drive us the most insane, no?”

There was a brief pause, during which Scout thought that Spy was again unsuccessful, though Sniper's tone when he spoke was somehow worse than any form of anger. It cracked slightly, and it was more than evident that Spy had breached terrain that nobody had breached before. Hearing his teammate being rendered uncomfortable was a rather odd thing to witness. It was like when he overheard his Ma arguing with her boyfriends and realised that she was just as capable of mistakes as the guys she brought home.

“You don't know I wasn't paid for it,” was Sniper's reasonable retort.

“I did not,” Spy agreed. “Not until I saw your face just then. Is that the reason for your rigorous professionalism, hm? Do you think that it will eventually right this perceived imbalance caused by one mistake? You are truly more idiotic than I first thought.”

“Nah,” said Sniper. “Sparin' someone a miserable death might, though. If the kid gets outta here alive, my job will be done.”

“You are good with him, I suppose, but your job is to kill people.”

The van spluttered and slowly came to a halt. Scout opened his eyes and looked at the gauges on the dashboard. Their gas had run out.

“That's somethin', comin' from his own miserable wretch of a dad, right?” Sniper mumbled. The assassin leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, and Scout noted with discomfort that he had paled a good deal. The front of his shirt was stained with fresh blood. There was little time left for him, but Scout decided not to think about that.

Wait, _what?_

Angrily pretending that he had not heard their conversation, he reached over and opened the door, deftly climbing over his friend and out into the desert. Without pausing to appreciate the cool, morning air following the rain, he turned and held Sniper's arm as the man made an effort to remove himself from the driver's seat, a hand pressed to his abdomen. Scout, for once failing to resort to verbal insults, narrowed his eyes at the Spy, who was watching with obvious disinterest. The urge to just _kill_ him was growing stronger by the minute, and if he did not genuinely fear killing somebody for real, Spy would already be dead.

“I wish I never found him out there!” Scout insisted earnestly. He bit on his tongue to distract himself from his growing anger, knowing that he was going to do something stupid if he lost it. The RED team picked on him, but they let him tag along in their adventures. They let him drink beer and they told him stories about the constellations in the sky. They took him fishing and let him win in arm wrestling competitions. The guys were his brothers, and nobody hurt them, or they had to go through _him_ in the end, even if they believed all those stupid rumours flying around about him and the BLU Spy.

“It's all right, mate,” Sniper replied, checking to make sure that his weapons were secure. “How's your head? Didja put your letters in the bag?”

“It's fine, and yeah.”

Spy slammed the door to the van shut and slunk towards them, grunting as he lifted the heavy pack up onto his shoulder. Scout, immediately antagonised by his presence, acted without thinking, shoving the man's shoulder roughly and sneering at him.

“Why did ya have to go and start stabbin' people?” the boy snapped, giving the Spy another shove. “We're not on the job, man! We said you could come with us!”

“If he had not leapt upon me like a crazed baboon, I wouldn't have had to!” Spy objected, grabbing Scout's wrist and holding it fast. “Besides, _he_ was the driver, was he not? It's his fault that you're here in the first place, even if he says that he cannot remember why!”

Sniper remained silent. Scout tore his hand from Spy's grip and looked at the assassin as if urging him to defend himself, but something had changed. The Australian had been adamant only a few days prior that he had no idea what the hell was going on, but now, there was something about the glazed look to his eyes that bespoke a sudden uncertainty. Did these guys know more than they were letting on? Had something changed overnight? Were they susceptible to the strange occurrences affecting the desert?

“Guys?” the boy questioned, looking between them. Before he could demand anything of them, he began to feel his headache worsen with an intense shooting pain surging across the side of his head. With a curse, he gripped it and bowed over, suddenly feeling queasy. Below his feet, the sand swam in all different directions like milk, and he was sinking into it. It was cool and wet and so much more pleasant than the dry heat of the surface. “Guys, let go, it's nice,” he babbled, not realising that he actually _was_ sinking into the sand, much to the surprise of the two other men, who were furiously pulling at his arms to keep him from vanishing.

The ground began to shudder violently. It forced Scout to come to, though he wished quickly that he was none-the-wiser. Something was _under_ there. He could hear it, but if it was an animal, it sure as hell made no sound that he had ever heard. More concerning was the thought that it was hungry and was attempting to suck him down for its breakfast, but the more he struggled, the more his head hurt and the less able he was to move or shout.

Sniper grabbed him, wrapping his arms beneath his shoulders and heaving Scout upwards, using all the strength of his legs and back to pull him out. It was a slow process, but the two eventually tumbled backwards onto the safety of the surface. Sniper did not wait to to question what had just happened. Righting himself, he somehow managed to drag Scout up onto his back and hold him there by hooking his hands beneath his knees in a form of piggy-back. The van began to vanish, then, the metal creaking as the back wheels were pulled underneath the soft surface of Badwater Basin. Scout, through the haze of pain and nausea, felt Sniper stiffen underneath him as they watched his beloved camper become a meal of the desert.

“We must go,” Spy muttered, his eyes wide as he began to run southwards. Sniper followed not a second later, jogging as fast as he could go with the weight of the weapons and the boy on his back. Meanwhile, Scout held on for dear life, wincing every time the edge of the Machina dug into his crotch. Though he desperately wanted to run, something was stopping him – and it wasn't just whatever had overcome him minutes ago. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up on end, and his blood was running cold in his veins. He felt scared because it felt like they were being watched and he hated it, he hated fearing whatever was -

A shrill, unearthly shrieking pierced the air. The men paused and turned. An insect crawled out of the ground by the van and chirped – a detail important enough to be remarked upon because of the creature's impossible size. It had to be as large as a double-decker bus and it was a toxic green in colour. It had three pairs of black, compound eyes, an enormous mouth made for mushing its prey, and long, spindly legs that enabled it to move at a terrifying speed. And that's exactly what it was doing. _Towards them_.

“Holy _dooly_!” Sniper shouted in alarm, bursting into a sudden and impressive sprint in response to the new danger. Scout said his prayers against the assassin's shoulder. Why did it have to be bugs? He hated bugs more than anything in the entire world, and these things were alien in size! Just where the hell had these things come from? Had they been sleeping out of sight, waiting for some dumb, unsuspecting prey to travel over their nest? Reluctantly turning his head back, there was nothing to do other than stare and hope that this was just another nightmare, but that thing was too real! He could see the dark fuzz over its body and the way its mouth clamped together in anticipation. No nightmare had detail so extraordinarily vivid. Just what the _hell_ was going on in this place?!

Sniper pulled the Machina from his scabbard and turned, quickly bringing the scope to his eye and shooting. The sound was near deafening, but the bullet cleaved through the head of the creature pursuing them and out the other end of its body. The insect stopped and slowly toppled into the sand, its legs twitching aimlessly. There was little time to rest, as soon after the shot, the ground began to tremor again as if in response.

“This way!” the Australian bellowed, making for the wall of the natural bowl. It took several minutes, but soon they were provided with the relative safety of what was a crevice in the rocks – at least, it seemed safe in its size, because there was no way one of those bugs was going to crawl through it with any ease. However, upon squeezing through, they were met with a second nightmare. Another insect, this one of a stranger shape and size. Its abdomen was bulbous and swollen, and the yellow flesh moved in disgusting waves. Thankfully, it was apparently lodged in what looked like an alcove, and it chirped as the three men approached.

Scout gaped at it in disbelief, moving his hands to his head. "What the hell is that?!"

“It's the queen,” Sniper muttered, releasing hold of Scout's legs to lower him to the ground. “There's probably a passage underground behind it. And a hundred thousand eggs.”

“Nah, man!” Scout objected, hiding half of his body behind his friend and staring at the creature's humongous, _intelligent_ eyes. “Sniper, jeez! It's lookin' at us! What's it thinkin'?”

The assassin reloaded his rifle and approached the writhing creature. He then lit a cigarette. The queen made a whining sound and gazed up at him.

“It's … afraid,” he said with a touch of hesitance. “It's afraid! They've got size on their side, but they're just stupid bugs!”

Without any sympathy for the monster, he shot it in the head and whooped in triumph.

There came a long and eerie silence, during which Scout clambered to the side of the hollow in the rocks and peered out across the desert. The sky was lightening as morning fledged into day, providing a decent view of their surroundings. He felt himself shaking violently enough that his legs simply lost their strength and caused him to drop onto his ass. How scared he might have looked was the least of his worries, now, though.

They had just been trying to survive a desert. Even now, he could feel the awful heat, but it didn't matter. He thought that was going to be the worst experience of his life and definitely the worst case scenario of drunk-driving in the desert. Now, however, there were giant bugs under the ground which probably had a taste for human flesh. Scout had had nightmares about these things as a kid, and even the smallest cricket or bee could weird him out as a result. Now, they were faced with … whatever these things were! Maybe they had been a government experiment of some kind, monsters that escaped their facility and made a home in the desert. Maybe that was why the bases were gone – but why would the three of them have woken up there with no memory of when or how? Where were the other mercs? Miss Pauling? Did anybody have the answer to where these monsters had come from?

Spy had his ear to the cave wall. Without looking, he caught the SMG that Sniper threw his way.

“There are more coming,” he warned, eyes on the cave entrance. “Likely crawling down the side. Get _ready_ , you imbeciles.”

Scout held up his own SMG, wishing he had his trusty scattergun to hand. He was good with that, but had little experience with sub-machine guns. There was no time to worry about it. As soon as the bug's head dropped into the cave, all three of them were shooting at it, causing it to squeal loudly and retreat. There was a brief pause, and then three of them dropped to the ground and scrambled towards the men, alien jaws open in preparation. They momentarily became stuck in the crevice but quickly managed to squirm their way inside, for they were smaller than the titanic thing the guys had killed before. Scout managed to kill the one closest to him by aiming for where its head joined onto its body, decapitating it. Sniper killed one and injured another with the Machina. Spy, meanwhile, was having more trouble, having been hunted specifically by the final insect. The creature jabbed at him with one of its legs and sent him flying onto Sniper, and the two men crashed heavily into the wall.

The Australian was dragged out of the heap when the insect found his leg with its gross jaws. His cry of pain was horrifying, and weapons went scattering over the ground as he was again smashed against the wall, the impact enough to immediately silence him.

Despite his near crippling headache, Scout raced up and fired at the bug like a madman. Bits of its outer shell came raining down and it screamed, wiping its antenna over its face in an attempt to clean the blood off its eyes, but it succumbed to death quickly and dropped down into the pile of heads and legs that were its former comrades.

“Yeah!” Scout bellowed, holding his middle finger up at the bugs before slapping his butt as if to taunt them. “Yeah, broke into the wrong goddamn cave, din't ya, ya bastards? I'm not 'fraid of you!”

He turned and grinned at the other two – though that smile swiftly fell. His gaze fell upon a small vial that had apparently rolled out of Spy's pocket after his fall. It contained a vibrant, glittering substance within that was something between liquid and gas, resembling whatever stuff it was that Medic created to heal his teammates. It wasn't blue or red, but purple, suggesting that it perhaps had the power to work on men on either RED or BLU.

“Okay,” the boy began, dropping down to pick it up before Spy could grab it away, “so you show up, guy, and there's this in ya pocket the whole time. Why didn't ya say nothin'?”

Spy snarled and rubbed the arm he had landed on, eyeing Scout as he began to pull Sniper out of the pile of insect pieces.

“I was saving it, boy.”

Feeling a hand grabbing his ankle, Scout looked down and was dismayed to see Sniper trying to use him as leverage to sit up. The boy dropped down and helped his friend lean against the cave wall, noticing the sickly grey sheen to the man's face. Everything had taken its toll on him, evidently, and there was no way he'd be able to escape from the bugs if they came back. His front was doused in blood and his leg looked gross enough that the boy didn't even dare get any closer in case he puked. Without hesitation, Scout made to unscrew the vial in his hand, but Sniper stopped him by taking hold of his wrist and lowering it.

“Mate, he's right. Save it. With all this shonky shit goin' on, ya gonna need all your energy. You could even use it now, y'know, so your head will quit buggin' ya.”

Scout stared at him in disbelief. “You're gonna die, man! This is only enough for one person! You said … I mean, you'll get us outta here, right? Ya said ya would!”

“Yeah ...” Sniper pushed himself forwards, though fell back against the wall again, his cheeks turning a dull shade of green, only to turn grey again. He shakily lit a final cigarette and took a moment to enjoy its taste. “Yeah, I'm done. I did the best I could, kiddo. There's only a few miles left to go. If anyone can make it, you can.”

“Don't be dumb, Snipes. It's just a freakin' knife-wound. I mean ...” Scout pressed a hand against his forehead, desperately trying to think of a way to help. The cave smelt like blood and death and it was all too real. They had been chased by giant bugs and now Sniper was far beyond his usual self. It was a series of events more suited to the comic books he read! When he made to open the vial again, Spy seized his arms and pulled him away, holding the boy fast in a surprisingly strong grip. “Get off me, man! I swear I'll bash ya head in! You fuckin' did this!”

Outraged, Scout muscled out of Spy's grip and held up his SMG. Before he could shoot the Frenchman, something impacted on the side of his head and then he felt the soothing, healing effects of the gas-goo take hold. The pain in his head instantly ebbed away, his vision became sharper, and he no longer felt as if he was going to puke. Not because of his head, anyway. Sniper had used the last of his energy to stand and break the vial, and now Scout was mindlessly allowing him to swap rifles.

“Sorry. Sheila was my first and she's gonna be my last. Don't knock yaself out with the Machina, all right?” Sniper said, and Scout hated the casual tone to his voice.

The ground grumbled beneath them. To one side, the dead insect queen was moving, but not of its own accord. It was being pulled out from where it was wedged in the cave wall. Any time now, insects were going to be pouring out from their nest, and they were directly in their path.

Scout grabbed Sniper's shoulders. He didn't know why. He just needed to look at the guy one last time, knowing that the assassin was about to do something very stupid in his last moments.

“You're fuckin' Superman, dude. You know that, right?” he whimpered, his young face creasing. “What the hell is goin' on here? You know what's up, dontcha? You remembered earlier, I saw it.”

Sniper offered a small smirk in response. “You're a smart lad. You've done a lot of growin' up in the years I've known ya. Still an annoyin' little prick, but still. I ...”

The queen popped free, and from around her form, the mad scrabbling of legs became apparent. They were on the verge of breaking through, biting and tearing at the queen's flesh in order to get her out of the way and to their next meal. Sniper pushed Scout away and into Spy's waiting arms, and the boy was yanked out of the cave before he could even object.

“Eugene!” he heard his teammate shout. “Run for your bloody life, gremlin!”

 


	6. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is madness. Stuff will begin to make sense in the next one. *sweatdrop*

For the first time in his life, he didn't want to run. He reached back, but his hand landed on Spy's chest and the guy was  _ in the way _ of him going back and saving Sniper. When the screeching of the monsters near deafened them, however, Scout cursed and turned on his heels, grabbing the bag of supplies and sprinting away. He didn't care about Spy. He was too angry and upset to even think about him, only just able to acknowledge the direction he was heading in. Southwards, towards the edge of the bowl and to where the safety of the visitor's centre was. He had to make it, or he'd never see his Ma, he'd never see the guys, and his friend would have died all for nothing.

_Died._ Fuck. Sniper was gone. It left a hole that gaped far too much for Scout's liking, and it was going to tear him apart if he didn't concentrate. He had to just  _forget_ . At least, just for now, just until he was out of harm's way and he wasn't being pursued by angry, hungry bugs the size of his Ma's house. So, he did what he was best at, what the streets of Boston had taught him to do since he was born the reedy runt of the family. The boy forced himself to re-envision his situation. The bugs - they were just his brothers, they were the big neighbours who always pushed him into puddles, they were his teachers at school. They were his father and all the vague memories he had of him. The bugs were just his problems and his problems were the kind that could always be  _ outrun _ . 

For how long he ran, he didn't know. The terrain was all the same. Given how long he could usually push himself to run for, it had to have been about half an hour. He was more of a sprinter than a distance runner, but still, he was equipped with the means to escape whatever kind of danger he needed to. Only when he approached a near dried spring set among the valley's dark rocks did he stop and tumble into the sand out of sheer exhaustion.

"Fuck you!" he shouted, his voice cracking. Just who his exclamation was aimed at, even he had no idea and was too angry to think about it, instead kicking at the sand and the rocks and slamming his fists into the milky white water nearby. "Fuck you!"

Thinking better of his vocalisations, Scout dragged himself and the supplies behind a rock. He sat against it and tried in vain to catch his breath, peeking around the side of it every now and then to keep an eye out for the monsters that had ruined everything. There were none in sight, for now. Had he managed to outrun them or had they simply lost interest and gone back to their nest beneath the ground?

Sweat poured down his face in rivulets. After everything, he had almost forgotten about the heat. After draining a bottle of water or two, Scout pulled himself into the spring and wallowed in the salty, muddy mess where it was cool. He had used up the last of Sniper's sun lotion before and had nothing to protect himself from the sun. Besides, he knew from the couple of times he had gone hunting with Sniper that this kind of stuff was good at concealing a man's scent. Could insects smell? Who the hell cared, but he sure as heck wasn't taking any chances.

He didn't realise Spy was there until several minutes in, hearing only the ghost of a breath and muffled steps in the sand.

"That wasn't real, dude. It was too quick. Right?"

"Welcome to death,  _ mon petit singe de boue _ . It is either painstakingly slow or swift to the point that we are forced to recognise the fragility of mortality."

Scout ran his hands down his face, covering it in white mud and water. "Why'd you hide the Medic's stuff?"

"I was saving it," Spy said again, his voice flat. "I am certain your mother would appreciate you coming out of this in one piece."

"Bullshit!" the boy shouted, slamming his hands into the water out of frustration. "Don't use that card on me! You wanted to use it for yaself! We coulda used it on Sniper after you jammed a knife in his gut! He might still be here, man! What the hell's wrong with you?"

The BLU calmly sat down beside the spring, retrieving some water from the pack. "He  __was_ _ going to kill me. Granted, I may have said a few things, but I was only defending myself when he reacted poorly." His lips curled, and he shook his head. "It is hardly any kind of loss, Scout. He went out the way he would have wanted to. He was just a bushman sent mad by years in the baking heat."

Scout sat in silence for a moment, then pushed himself into a deeper part of the spring and floated there on his back, closing his eyes to protect them from the burning light. The water on his face evaporated quickly and cooled his scorched skin.

"You can say that about anyone. That they're  _ just _ a thing. But they ain't just a thing. They want stuff and keep stuff secret an' all that. Guy, he was my friend. Yeah. He took my shit and ran with it. And there ain't another guy like him out there. Er, apart from your Sniper, but he don't count. Yeah, everyone's got a story. No one really knew Snipes' but it didn't mean …"

"Touching, boy, but you are not thinking like a killer."

"Yeah?" the RED spat quickly, sitting up from his spot in the small pool of water. "Both me an' him put aside that so we could get outta here alive! We put aside that for  __you_ _ ! So shut ya trap hole, man. If our guys could work together against those robots then we shoulda been able to do it here, too! Ya ruined everythin'! You were just a massive jerk to him the whole freakin' time! Yeah, you know what, Spy? You  _suck_ .”

Spy sipped elegantly from the flask of water he had retrieved. “Oh, Scout. It is rather obvious that your only concern through this entire ordeal was  _you_ . You put an enormous amount of emphasis on that man's life for one who saw him as a mere vessel out of this hell. And, please, you cannot convince me that not once were you a  _jerk_ to those trying to help you. It is in your nature. You have been relying on that idiot's better side, knowing full well that he wouldn't leave a  _child_ out here to die. Did you ever stop to think that he might have had something worth going back to?”

Scout felt sick upon hearing the Spy's words. His first instinct was to profusely deny them, but he  _had_ goaded Sniper, especially following the crash in the van. He had been angry, sure, but even he knew that wasn't really an excuse. His friend had looked after him when he was injured, washed his shirt, made sure he was fed and watered, and for what? To receive little but backlash and insinuations in return and to die miserably in the jaws of giant, vicious bugs?

“He … he didn't,” the boy mumbled, moving to a slope in the spring to sit with his arms resting on his knees. “He said so.”

“Did he? Then he was lying. Fools welcome death, Scout. He was an idiot, but not a _fool_.”

Guilt pooled in the Bostonian's chest. He rested his chin on his arms, staring blankly into the perfectly still pool. The water on his skin began to dry immediately, forming tight cracks along its surface, and attracted various little insects to buzz around him and settle on the goop coating his form. He didn't care. His eyes stung and his nose was beginning to run, and he was desperate to conceal it from the Spy behind him.

“Who's the one not thinkin' like a killer, now?” he snapped, his voice somewhat muffled as his head sank further into his arms. “How did you get here so fast, anyways?”

“After I was left to fend for myself in the face of certain death, I managed to sit astride one of the beasts and impale the back of its head with my dagger. I suppose I must have hit part of its nervous system, as I was able to control its body for a short time by steering it with the blade. It died about five minutes from here.” Spy lit a much needed cigarette and sighed. “It was _far_ more impressive than it sounds, I assure you.”

Scout reached back and felt his pocket in search of the butterfly knife he had attempted to conceal from Spy. All in vain, apparently, as it was not there, stolen from his possession when he least suspected it and somehow used to commandeer the unwilling body of a giant insect. 

He'd fought aliens, wizards, giant floating eyeballs, and even an army of rampaging robots. Nothing compared, however, to the utter craziness transpiring in this hellhole of a desert. While former occurrences encouraged him to believe that this fiasco was entirely real and not a figment of his imagination, this was something to be taken far more seriously, at he hated it. The respawn machine they had been linked to was gone, and somebody had actually died. All the more, bugs always came in abundance, and there were certainly more where those small few had hatched from. Despite the absurdity of Spy's miraculous escape, it was a comfort to know, at least, that there was a way to overpower the creatures. It had to be true. The Spy was too clever to form an explanation that actually sounded reasonable in these circumstances.

If they were facing the impossible and the absurd in this valley, then surely there was a chance that Sniper could have survived, right? Scout flattened himself on his stomach and reached out of the water to pull the Machina towards him, idly feeling the detail on its hot, metal surface. He lowered his head onto his arm and sighed.

“D'ya think he could be respawned at one of the other bases?” he asked flatly, then rubbed his running nose with his hand. There was a trace of guilt to his tone. A huge part of him just so wanted to give up, but they were so close to their goal that simply lying there and accepting fate would be nothing short of pure idiocy.

“Perhaps,” Spy murmured after draining his flask. “I would not count on it, however. There is a reason the insects did not follow us here. His body -”

“Yeah, jeez, I don't wanna know, man!” Rising out of the water, Scout grabbed the pack and dug into its depths with an air of urgency. After finding a pack of tissues, he quickly sat down and began hastily cleaning the kukri he had been keeping in his belt – now muddied thanks to his efforts to cool off. Again, he sniffed, hating how much his eyes were stinging and watering, and he blamed the extreme heat encasing them from all sides. Still, he furiously worked to clean the knife for reasons unknown to even him, barely wincing whenever he accidentally sliced his fingers on the sharp edge.

Spy watched with an odd expression, though made no effort to stop the boy from doing whatever he was doing.

“Bury your grief, Scout. It will only grant you weakness from here onwards. Forget, and move on,” he said sternly, eyeing the kukri as if it had done him great harm (it likely had, many times). “We cannot sit here _crying_ while we slowly die of heatstroke.”

The boy lashed out before he could consider his actions. His fist struck the side of Spy's face, and  _damn_ , it felt good hearing the crunch of his own knuckles against the bastard's cheekbone. The hit was enough that Spy was forced to lower his arm into the muddy water to stop himself from slamming into the ground, ruining his expensive suit as a result. When his arm left the water, it was covered in the white substance from fingers to shoulder, and Spy suddenly looked as if he had lost a friend of his very own as he slowly unbuttoned the jacket and allowed it to drop down to the sand, now useless. 

“You deserved that, man,” Scout said, his voice not quite as strong as he wanted it to be. “You deserved it from me, and from my Ma. D'ya know what it's like growin' up out in Boston when your own brothers won't fuckin' stand up for ya against the assholes at school? Huh?” He stood and clenched his fists, likely appearing a state, but he didn't care a bit. His anger was a difficult thing to rein in, and even more so now the source of most of it was present. “D'ya know what it's like hittin' a kid _just once_ 'cause he won't shut up about ya dopey haircut, and then his dad comes and beats the crap outta ya 'cause his boy got a boo-boo? It ain't cool not havin' a dad to stand up for you when shit hits the fan. It ain't fun bein' kicked around all ya life 'cause no one cares. Yeah, the only time my dad talks to me is when he _literally_ stabs me in the back, or when he tells me to suck up losin' someone like it's nothin'. Ya know what? I don't care about anythin' you got ta'say! ”

Scout angrily kicked sand into Spy's face. The BLU quickly stood and made to react, though instead calmed and rubbed the sand particles out of his eyes with an irritated tautness to the way he was poised. 

“I am not your father,” he argued, a feigned patience on his countenance. 

“Yeah,” Scout agreed. “Yeah, man, you're right. I don't care what that DNA test Miss Pauling burned said. It don't mean nothin'.”

“This is not the time or place -”

“No time or place ever was right for you, huh? Yeah.” Snatching up the pack and pulling it over his shoulder, Scout turned and spared the Spy a sour glance. “Don't tell me not to care about losin' Sniper. The guys on RED – yeah, buncha idiots and nutjobs – but they're _my_ buncha idiots and nutjobs. Ya hear that? They've given me everythin' that you didn't, and that's the last time I'm gonna even look at you and remember what you did to me and Ma, Spy, 'cause I'm over it! I'm gonna get to that centre and outta here! Then, I'm gonna travel the world and never have to look at your slimy face ever again.”

There was a long pause, during which Spy rubbed his chin and even smiled, much to Scout's surprise.

“Well, I must admit; a part of me is glad that you have finally said all you needed to say, Eugene.” He checked his watch and took a moment to adjust it, his expression falling oddly flat. “It seems my time is up. Never mind. My work here is done.”

“Huh?” A dawning realisation crept onto Scout's face. “You remember, too, doncha?! Why we're here? Spy -” Bounding forwards, he grabbed hold of the older man's waistcoat, in desperate need of answers despite the conflict at hand.

“Yes. Strange how it just hits you. A part of me knew, it seems, for I realised that danger awaited beneath the desert's surface, though I never knew _why_.”

Scout gripped tighter out of sheer frustration, but the harder he pulled, the looser the other man's attire seemed to become. In fact, it slowly began to feel as warm and smooth as mere smoke – and that's indeed what he was holding moments later. Alarmed, the boy batted the misty image of Spy, realising that he was literally vanishing into thin air without the help of his watch. This was different to his usual tricks, and it sure as hell wasn't a happy illusion brought on by the sun's heat.

“Wait! You gotta tell me, man! Where the hell are ya goin'?”

Within the ghostly remains of the fading man's face, a smile could be seen.

“I will trust Sniper's instincts just this once. It is likely better you do not know. Get to the building, because that is all you are required to do. I am sure even a simpleton like you could manage it.”

“Wait!” the RED shouted again, continuing to try and grab his former companion out of sheer disbelief. “Don't go! Ya can't leave me alone!”

The last remnant of Spy's cool, dry tone simply faded away like an echo, whatever he was saying rendered incomprehensible. The ease with which he faded inexplicably from existence was just mind-boggling for poor Scout, who was forced to stand there in silence with his hands still holding empty air. It wasn't like he had  _wanted_ to travel the rest of the way with the guy, but doing it alone seemed that much more daunting, especially when he had no idea just what the desert was going to throw at him next. This place – this horrible, freakish place – just seemed to have a mind of its own, and it seemed to be mocking him by keeping him alive this long. It had taken his friend, and it still kept the secrets of its existence well and truly hidden.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. 

Out of pure instinct, he pulled up the Machina and held it closely to his chest, knees knocking together as he observed his surroundings. It was the same feeling he'd had before, before the bugs had emerged and he'd felt like he was being watched by something. What was gonna happen, now? Why couldn't he just travel in peace?! And where the hell was Sniper when he needed him?

Oh, right.

It took a moment, but he spotted something out in the desert that definitely had not been there seconds ago. Its form was heavily distorted by the waves of heat rising from the ground, but it was close to being human in shape, and it was … dark, like the person was dressed in black from head to foot and even hooded. Scout stayed perfectly still as he looked at the figure in the distance, eyes widening. It definitely wasn't one of the guys. He just knew. There wasn't anything remotely friendly about the way it stared back at him from the shadows of its face.

“S-Spy?” the boy attempted, managing a step backwards. The stranger copied him, only moving forwards, instead. Scout took one of Sniper's bullets from his pocket and quickly loaded the Machina before aiming it towards the black figure. “Stay back, man. I'm so freakin' tired of all this bullcrap!” Hands tightening on the gun, he fired it – and the recoil sent him flying back onto his ass. His rear end didn't hurt quite as much as his hands in that moment, which he shoved under his armpits and hugged himself tightly to silently work through the pain. Managing to glance up, he saw that he had either missed the shot completely or the stranger was simply unable to be killed that way.

The figure held up its hands as if in surrender and slowly approached. The thought crossed Scout's mind that he was more than likely hallucinating by this point, but still he remained vigilant, grabbing the Machina back up and aiming the barrel of it squarely at the thing getting closer to him. Real or not, it seemed even imaginary creatures could do some serious damage in this place, giant bugs and weird black ghosts included.

The man's arms were far too long and spindly, like the legs of a spider. The black robe he wore was tattered, and holes in it were patched with mismatched squares. The fact he didn't appear to have any feet or shins below the remnants of his robe indicated that he was somehow floating, but that was far from being the creepiest thing that Scout had ever seen. Oddest of all was the mask he wore – something that resembled a skull, cheaply made and likely picked up from a local dollar store during Halloween. Scout, beginning to wonder what the hell he had been so scared of, lowered his weapon and tilted his head.

“Merasmus?” he said without thinking. Indeed, when the mask was lifted, he was greeted with a bulbous nose and an expression of affront.

“ _Merasmus?_ Nay! You receive the honour of being frightened into cardiac arrest and you compare me to that _squib?”_

“Uh -” Scout took another step backwards and put a hand on his chest. He was still very much alive, as far as he could tell. “I mean, jeez. You look _just like_ Merasmus. Sorry, guy. Don't kill me, aight?”

The strange entity brandished a fist before pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

“And you resemble that adorable child actor Kevin Bacon, but do you see me making a song and dance about it? That fool _Merasmus_ owes me money! In fact, he is next on my list!” The man spread his arms and when he spoke again, his voice boomed impressively. “I am Memento Mori, the _Wizard of Death!_ Cower, mortal, as I claim your soul as my own!” With a wave of his hand, he summoned a human-sized burlap sack and held it open. “Now, step inside. If I'm not back in Hell by three, Satan is going to use me as a footstool for _another_ twenty years.”

“Uh.” Scout scratched his head, staring awkwardly at the sack. “Nah. Merasmus, I got somewhere to be, so unless ya -”

“ _I am not Merasmus!_ ”

The boy quickly held up a hand to try and placate the guy. “All right, I'm sorry! You wizards all look the same ta'me!”

Memento audibly gasped. “How  _dare_ you.” Dropping the sack, his hands landed on his hips. “I am the Undertaker! The Maker you meet! The King of Funeral Directors! I am He Who Must Not Be Named and heir to Hogwarts founder, Rasputin! I am  _Death_ . Now, please, get into the potato sack. I have been following you since you arrived here, surviving off the crumbs you left behind, just waiting for the exact moment that you are supposed to die.”

The presence of a wizard who claimed to be Death in the middle of the desert perhaps raised more questions than anything else that had occurred. Though caught off guard and genuinely, horribly confused, Scout thought quickly for a solution to this newest problem. He reached back and felt along the various pockets of the pack on his shoulder for a moment, then slowly produced the last bag of Cheetos. As he waved it enticingly back and forth, Memento followed it with his eyes like a hungry cat.

“I need ya help,” Scout said, continuing to wave the snacks to hold the wizard's attention. “I need answers! Are you behind all the crap that's been going on? The bugs and stuff?”

“Nay!” Memento proclaimed, inching forwards and attempting to paw at the Cheetos, only to have them pulled from his grasp. “I am just another obstacle in the course of life, you ignoramus. You have done well to avoid me thus far, but now, your time has come, as is said in the most unholy of books: Arcanumexsiumeus Deathicus, where the death dates of all mortals are written.” The wizard clenched his fists and sneered. “I could not be happier! You and those other men have become near enough immortal with that dratted machine, but now – yes! - your soul is mine! Ah, and for your consideration, I only accept cheesy goods as payment for card readings, not as exemption from expiration. That would require your _first-born child._ Or maybe cash. I'm pretty easy.”

“Okay,” the boy said with a grim acceptance of the fact he was not going to have his questions answered. “Look, if ya teleport me to where I need to go, I'll buy ya a whole crate of Cheetos, man. I promise.”

“Liar!” Memento proclaimed, flinging an arm upwards. As he did, a card flew out of his sleeve and landed on the sand below. He quickly summoned it back up to him to inspect it. “Ah, the one-legged pigeon. That means your time here is going to be cut short very soon.”

Scout gaped at him. “Huh?” He shook his head and took a few steps backwards, trying to indicate that he really wanted to leave. “I wasn't lyin'! Your loss, man! Yeah, we're done here, I mean, I'm not even dead and ya tryin' to collect my soul. If ya not gonna help me then I'm not doin' you any favours, brother. Catch this!” The RED flung the bag of Cheetos and struck the wizard on the chest. Without waiting to see what would come of his stupidity, Scout scrambled away and burst into an immediate sprint. With no idea where he was going by this point, he followed the wall of the bowl in the hopes that the building he was looking for would be situated on the southern edge like Spy had said. Despite the mud coating his form, however, the heat was quickly growing absolutely unbearable. Sniper had warned him not to be out in the sun at this time of day when in a desert, but he could hardly retreat to shelter when he was being pursued by Death itself.

The boy had to slow down. His own sweat was causing white mud to drip into his eyes. His throat felt like it was lined with needles, and his chest was on fire. How long had he been running for? However long, he had not managed to outrun the newest threat, who he could hear cursing behind him. Scout skidded and quickly crumpled down onto the boiling hot sand, but he was too exhausted and hot to even move when he could feel his skin burning.

Maybe it was time to give up the fight. He had given the desert all he had, fought off everything that this crazy Wonderland threw at him, but his body was tired and it was easier to just accept fate than fight it. When his vision darkened, Scout barely moved. Had the wizard caught him? Or had he really just dreamt the guy up in an attempt to put a face to what he feared the most? Was this going to be the end?

It wouldn't be so bad. At least he would get to see people he had lost over the past twenty-five years, and if he managed to get into Heaven, he wouldn't be dealing with living in what was essentially a giant, sandy oven. Even as he thought this, however, he began to panic and struggled with all his might, fighting whatever darkness was overwhelming him, but maybe it was too late. The burning was gone, and he was fading, his mind crumbling into another place and time. He felt … all of a sudden, he felt just like a kid again.

 

* * *

 

He pulled his sheet up over his face and stared at his father with large, blue eyes. 

“Little Jack was shocked to find that the insects he had once delighted in squashing beneath his feet had grown to an enormous size and were ready to take their revenge. They were green and covered with a black fuzz, and their dark eyes were fixed upon the boy. Jack had something that they did not, however. He had a mind to think with and hands to hold guns with. Pulling a loaded gun from his pocket, he -”

“Don't like this story, Pa,” Eugene squeaked, pulling his little knees up to his chest and ducking beneath his bright red quilt. 

The man sat beside the bed sighed and closed the book he was holding. His thin legs were folded and he held a cigarette between his fingers, like always. He was faceless, even then. 

“You wanted a story with guns and now you decide you do not like it?”

“Not bugs! Tell me a story about ...” the six year old boy's face scrunched up for a moment as he lowered the quilt, “... about you, Pa! Where ya go when -”

“I'm not sure you would like that story, either,” came the flat response. 

The next day, his Pa vanished again, and it was different this time. Usually, his Ma would wake young Eugene and his brothers up for school like always, but that morning, the boy woke up far later than he should have. He could tell by the fact it was too light outside, and that his Tom Jones themed alarm clock was pointing at the ten. Clad in his red onesie, he raced downstairs and stopped by the door to the kitchen, shyly peering past the doorframe.

His Ma was sat at the table, alone, her face in her hands.

“Ma, we're late for school,” Eugene said quietly, unsure whether to approach or not. “What's'a matter?”

The dark-haired lady slowly lowered her hands and fixed her watery eyes on her youngest son. The curtains in the small, pokey kitchen were still drawn, and he couldn't see her face properly in the dimness of the room. Still, he could tell that she was upset, and so he padded forwards and held onto his mother's dress in an attempt to comfort her. 

“Ya know daddy said he was gonna take ya to get tacos after school?” Ma said in her nasally tone, voice strained with emotion. Her voice was the best sound in the world for her youngest kid, but not when it was thick with tears. Only kids were meant to cry, right?

“Yeah!” Eugene said excitedly, beaming up at her.

“Yeah? Well, he ain't. He's gone, Genie.”

A swell of disappointment forced the boy's smile to quickly fall. He looked away and rubbed his nose. He should have been used to disappointment, but he was only six. He wanted to believe that one day, things would be okay for all of them. It was difficult when his Pa didn't seem to think the same, only ever putting his job first and his family last. He was …  _selfish_ . That was a word Eugene had learnt the other day, but he had not expected to use it to describe someone meant to be close to him. 

The other kids always bragged about their dads and their cool jobs. Eugene didn't even know what his Pa did when he went away. 

“He always comes back,” he murmured adamantly. His Ma rubbed her nose and then leaned down, holding her son by the shoulders.

“Not this time, Genie. He's gone back to France. It's just gonna be us and your brothers. Yous a big boy now, right? You gonna look after me, right?”

It was far too great a weight to put on the shoulders of one so young, but it was a load he would bear for the rest of his life, because his own father never did. Even when he grew up into a bratty teenager and went out looking for fights with the pack of dogs he knew as his brothers, he was always the one to go home first and let their Ma know that they were all right, even if his nose was bloody and he got shouted at by her because of it. Jeez, it wasn't like she hadn't bloodied a few noses in her time – she packed the meanest punch of anyone he knew, and in the heart of Boston, that was saying something. She had eight sons to keep honest and keep safe from the other kids. She learnt to be Ma and Pa all rolled up into one. 

Even when Eugene grew up and found out she was seeing his Pa in secret, he still stuck his neck out for her. Raising eight boys had almost definitely wiped her bank accounts, and so he sought to get the highest paying job he could find. 

“Ma!” the young man shouted excitedly, kicking his way into the living room. A heavy waft of incense slammed into his nostrils, and his mother was dancing slowly to an old record. The sixties had transformed her into a lady who always smelt like frankincense and wore colourful jewellery and headbands. She always said that love and peace filled a void in her heart that men had left behind.

“What's up, sugar?” Ma replied, slowly turning and moving her arms in a wave-like motion. 

“I got that job!” Eugene took his mother by the shoulders and shook her slightly. “Y'know, the one where I get to shoot guys? The pay is freakin' great! I told ya it wouldn't matter when I dropped outta school! No one needs brains to swing a bat!”

“That's great, dear.” His Ma's face suddenly fell. “Wait, ya leavin' me? Don't they gotta send ya off to all those remote places?”

“Yeah, but … but Ma, I'm an adult now, aight? I'm gonna send ya back some moolah to help ya out, and I'll send ya postcards and call every day, I promise.”

With half of his brothers in jail and the others who knew where, Eugene was reluctant to leave, but there was stuff he wanted to do and he wasn't gonna be helpful if he was stuck at home. With a heavy heart, his Ma had let him go, and for the first time, he took a plane all on his own and got lost in the middle of some dumb, hillbilly town called Teufort. Realising how late he was for work, he dumped all of his luggage in the first hotel he could find and simply ran for it, being devoid of cash, sprinting along the desert road and getting himself even more lost.

At least he had his bat and ball. Growing frustrated and fearful that he would be fired upon arrival, he threw up the baseball and slammed it with his trusty Sandman, sending it flying out along the road – where a van happened to be approaching after all that time. Eugene remained perfectly still as he watched the ball smash into the van's windshield and force the vehicle to stop suddenly, swerving slightly as the driver braked. 

Eugene hid his bat behind his back when the van's door opened. Out came a guy who was tall and tanned, his long face partially hidden behind orange aviators and the brim of a slouch hat. The boy didn't have a particularly long time to take in the appearance of the man who was, unbeknownst to him, his future teammate, because his baseball was slamming right between his eyes seconds later and knocking him straight to the floor. 

When he came to, the stranger was fanning him with his hat and had his sunglasses pushed up into his slick, dark hair. 

“What the hell did ya do that for?” Eugene demanded at once, pushing the man's arm aside and quickly standing up – though he immediately fell onto his butt again and sat there for a moment to collect himself. Dust from the road blew into his eyes thanks to the soft breeze, and he swore and tossed his bat off to one side, irritated. There was no verbal response from the other guy, but he felt himself behind pulled up and guided towards the camper van. “Hey! Ger'off, old man! I'm tryin' to get ta'the the base!” The boy was pushed into the passenger side seat a little too roughly. 

“Yeah? So am I. Now, shut ya pie-hole and put on your seatbelt before I strangle ya with it. I only just got that windscreen fixed. Some Yankee wanker smashed it the first night I was here.”

Before the door slammed shut, Eugene felt his bat and ball being tossed into his lap.

The stranger, it turned out, was an Australian ranged assassin hired by RED – the same company that Eugene was due to start work with as a merc. And he had  _ left a hole in the  _ _guy's windscreen_ . However, it seemed that little mistake was since paid for (given how his head throbbed, he wasn't going to forget it any time soon), as the assassin was surprisingly polite once drawn into conversation. Eugene even got him to smile once or twice. 

They eventually found and pulled up to the base. Most of the mercenaries were late as they were flying in from other countries, so Eugene – now known as the Scout, apparently – was able to share a few beers with the Sniper and some Texan known as the Engineer before any kind of induction started.

And that was that.

Scout was subject to one final memory, and it was perhaps unfortunate for Death that he was, because it was perhaps the only thing that made anything in this hellhole of a desert make any sense.

He was a kid again, sat at the kitchen table and drawing. His scribbles resembled Ronald, his goldfish that he had recently found floating upside-down in his tank.

“Ma?” he said, his tone the very epitome of innocence. “What does Death look like?”

The woman, sat sewing a pair of his trousers, glanced up and seemed surprised by the question, but she wisely put some thought into her answer instead of instantly berating him for the grim thought. 

“Death is what ya make of it, honey.”

_Death's a joke,_ he thought, and indeed, that was what he thought again as he fought the darkness threatening to pull him into the unknown. Maybe that was why the wizard resembled Merasmus (there was no bigger joke than him, after all), and maybe that was why Scout had survived this far. He was too good to die just yet, and he knew it. He wouldn't be beaten when he made a promise to his Ma, and besides … with guns like his, even the Grim Reaper didn't stand a hope in hell.

 

* * *

 

He rolled over and was blinded by the sunlight, but he didn't care. It meant he was still alive, even if his life had literally just flashed before his eyes. Flexing his guns, Scout slammed the side of Memento's face. And then again, on the other side. The wizard, who had been attempting to pull Scout into the burlap sack feet-first, fell backwards in a daze and groaned, one eyelid twitching. It wasn't enough to keep him down for long, however, as he was soon rolling upwards with his arms outstretched like a zombie, reaching for Scout's neck and squeezing tightly. 

That was until a loud and vicious  _crack_ filled the air of the sky. Scout immediately flinched and closed his eyes out of instinct. He knew that sound, but he wouldn't be the victim of it, today. The hands around his neck immediately loosened, and there came a sudden screaming so shrill that the boy was forced to cover his ears and curl up into himself. Memento was disappearing, but he wasn't Memento, anymore; he was a shapeless apparition, a skeleton swathed in robes of shadow, and there was a great big hole in the middle of its bony forehead. It screamed like a banshee a second time and then simply crumbled into a hundred pieces, hard pieces of bone scattering across the sand and eventually blowing away like dust in the wind. 

Scout stared blankly across the valley, shuddering slightly and thoroughly disturbed by what he had just seen. A shadow fell over him, and a familiar presence offered him their hand.

“What a prick, eh?”

 


	7. California Dreamin'

The team had been sent to Degroot Keep for a month. Scout hated it there. It was cold, it snowed, and they were stuck in the middle of nowhere so it couldn't really count as a holiday. He'd tried going exploring in the mountains, only to nearly get mauled by what was the hairiest freakin' yak he'd ever seen. The worst thing about the place was the weapon restrictions. He couldn't use his guns – what kind of backwards place was this? - so settled on throwing axes and slamming people with his baseball, instead. He was good at that.

In their downtime, it was too damn cold and there was nothing to do, so Scout decided to pester his team-mates, instead. Most of them had decided to ignore him, however, because his flying axes may or may not have cut off a few RED ears unintentionally, and some of the others had just delved into the castles infinite supply of scrumpy to drink away the cold and boredom. They had all been working together for near enough a year, but the boy still found himself struggling to really connect with any of them, finding them unwilling to hang out or simply incapable of grasping such a concept. It had been, well, a pretty lonely year, and no matter how much he bugged the guys, they just seemed to get more and more annoyed at him in turn.

With his hands shoved in his pockets, the boy walked sullenly around the keep to try and stay warm. When he heard the _twangs_ and _thuds_ of a bow being used, he slid down the side of the snow-coated ravine and spotted Sniper practising on the rounded targets on the other side of the frozen river. The guy ignored near enough everybody when he was in a bad mood, so Scout wouldn't feel so bad hanging around him until they were called back into battle.

Despite the cold, Scout could see sweat beading on the assassin's face as he approached. Maybe archery was somehow a good way to keep warm, after all, so forgetting to greet his friend, he instead pinched the bow from him and held it up to try and pull the string back, but it was way harder than it looked. His arm quickly began shaking, and when he released the arrow, it flopped down about three metres to the left and pierced the ice of the river.

“You're holdin' it all wrong,” Sniper snapped, visibly annoyed by the intrusion. The boy half expected to get pushed away by this point, but instead, Sniper stood behind him and roughly forced him to hold the bow up again, re-arranging the kid's hands so that shooting would come with far more ease. After pulling an arrow from his quiver, he allowed Scout to nock the bow and pushed his hand up close to his cheek. “Keep your hand there. Don't keep it drawn for too long, or your arms will go limper than a Spy in a breeze.”

Scout closed an eye and licked his chapped lips out of concentration. The muscles in his arms felt like they were pulling apart already given the fact he hadn't warmed up and was stiff with cold, though he pretended otherwise, quickly releasing the arrow and watching as it sailed across the lake to thud into the base of a tree.

“Nice shot, mate,” Sniper commended, approaching the edge of the river to take a closer look. “Yeah, you -”

Before Scout could even react, the ground gave way beneath the assassin's feet and he watched as the man dropped into nothingness. Immediately laughing, he raced up to the edge and guffawed some more as Sniper rolled off the muddy bank and ended up spinning on the ice on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled. The expression of utter shock on his face made Scout laugh more than he had ever laughed in his life, the kid dropping onto his knees and holding his stomach as raucous hoots of mirth poured from him.

Sniper snarled and pushed himself up onto his feet in obvious preparation to lunge at Scout and throttle him, though only ended up skidding and performing an odd dance to try and maintain his balance. With a hard thud did he go flopping down onto his front as snow splashed up around him.

“Good goin', chucklenuts! You gonna … you gonna perform the Nutcracker for me, huh?” the younger man managed amidst gut-wrenching laughter.

“You're a little freakin' hoon,” Sniper growled, clearly not understanding his teammate's reluctance to help him, and when Scout simply rolled onto his back and continued to laugh, the assassin managed to push himself onto his hands and knees and resume barking at the boy, his cheeks and nose turning a violent red in his anger. “Get ya bony arse over here, ya bloody prawn! C'mon! Bloody wussy little croc biscuit! I'm gonna -” Forced into silence when the ice cracked from one side of the river to the other, Sniper's eyes widened and he swiftly tried to back away as the cracks began to spread in a spider web pattern. It was a river, after all, and the water underneath the ice was still moving, resulting in a thin surface that couldn't take much weight. The poor assassin again vanished, this time into a pool of freezing water as the ice around him split.

Scout stopped laughing and peered over the muddy edge of the river. He smirked when Sniper reappeared and grabbed onto the remaining ice to stop himself from getting pulled under again. The boy, soothed and made arrogant by the presence of the Respawn, sat and folded his legs, making it more than obvious that he wasn't going to get down there and help. In his young and perhaps foolish mind, it was all just a game. The guys died all the time, whether in battle or just killing each other out of sheer annoyance, and freezing to death could hardly be as bad as getting burned alive by Pyros, right?

An expression of betrayal, and perhaps even _fear_ passed Sniper's face, for some reason. He tried to pull himself out of the water, but the cold had quickly sapped his energy.

“Sc-scout, do me a favour, lad. G-g-give it a re-rest.”

In a rather untimely fashion, the siren that summoned them every morning to prepare for the day's fight sounded from the keep on the hill.

“Well, jeez, I'd love to, man, but I've gotta head to work. Dunno 'bout you!” Scout casually pushed himself up onto his feet and meandered away, whistling a cheery tune with his hands in his pockets.

He didn't hear anything shouted at him again, though when he arrived back at the old keep, he slowly began to regret what he had done, though only because when Sniper reappeared in Resupply some ten minutes after the battle had started, he was quickly hounded by a couple of the Administrator's goons and hauled off to a mysterious stone door embedded in the castle walls. Nobody knew exactly what was behind it, and nobody ever asked. They were forced to defend the keep without the marksman, and given Sniper's god-like power of ranged combat in the medieval themed battle-zone, team RED were driven into a miserable loss.

Scout explained (or rather, bragged about) what had occurred before the fight started, though he didn't exactly receive the praise and laughter that he had been expecting. Well, what the hell? His brothers would have clapped him on the back and laughed until their bellies were sore, and he'd have their approval for weeks, but here? Again, he was either ignored, or received some odd looks, and then everybody moved on in silence, disappointed that they had lost the day's fight. It was only after most of them had gone that Medic pulled him to one side and explained with all the glee of a maddened doctor that Sniper had such an ungodly fear of drowning that a single incident at Twofort had resulted in months of therapy.

Scout learnt the meaning of remorse that day. No soul on god's good earth should ever have had to spend two hours a week trapped in Medic's office partaking in the German's idea of talking cures (which tended to touch on hypnosis more than anything). Scout himself had been forced into it, once. Just a couple of times, not long after he'd started working for RED. He'd emerged with several new scars and, bizarrely, the temporary belief that he was a dolphin estranged from his pod and that mankind and sea-faring mammals were engaged in a desperate, bloody war. Sniper had been more fortunate in that, for a while, he had believed he was the reincarnation of Sidney Bechet and thus acquired sudden and remarkable skill on the saxophone.

The weather only got worse as evening drew in. The base being an old, stone outhouse somewhere on the castle grounds, the mercenaries were more than relieved when their Mann. Co delivery turned up, dropped out of the sky by a passing helicopter. It contained brand new, padded coats for all of them, warm hats, and rather unhelpfully, crates of scrumpy. There was only one man absent from the brief lift in the general atmosphere of the place.

The boy pulled on his new coat and ear-muffs and grabbed the last of the packages left in the wooden crate. Wherever the hell Sniper was, he probably didn't have a warm fire to sit next to, nor a padded coat that wasn't a hand-me-down. Jeez, that was something pretty new for Scout, too.

Despite the snowstorm falling upon the Scottish mountains, he hurried outside and braved the weather the short time that it took to reach the camper parked strategically away from the base. The weather-beaten old van was covered in a thick, white blanket of snow and appeared entirely vacant. Regardless, the shivering Scout approached and hammered on the door with a gloved fist.

“Hey, pal, you in there? Open up!”

The only response was an ominous howling of the wind. He _really_ didn't like this place.

Not entirely content with the idea of breaking into the van to make sure his team-mate was inside, Scout waited outside cluelessly for a good few minutes, keeping his hands warm underneath his pits and jogging on the spot every so often. He did soon hear a voice, however, only it certainly wasn't one of the guys. This one sounded like a _girl's_ voice. Grabbing up the packages, Scout made off into the wild Scottish wilderness and was more than surprised to see a tiny lady in a thick, purple coat dragging the much larger Sniper along the ground by his ankles.

“What the hell?!” Scout burst out without thinking, bolting forwards and startling the woman. She turned around quickly, as if caught doing something wrong, and offered a forced smile.

“Oh! Er ...” The dark-haired lady pulled a list out of her pocket and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Scout!” The list quickly vanished. “Look, do you mind helping me get him back to the van? I know this looks _really_ bad, and you're not gonna believe what happened, but I'll just be out with it. Some smooth jazz came on the radio and the guy just phased out, like something had pushed a button in his brain or something, I don't know.”

Scout, immediately charmed by the violet temptress, handed her the packages and flexed his arms before grabbing poor Sniper by the ankles and pulling him through the snow.

“Yeah, no problem!” he assured her, inwardly hoping that his coat made him look beefier than he really was. “Who the heck are ya, anyways?”

“Pauling. Miss Pauling. I work for the Administrator. I did pretty good staying out of you guys' way until now, apparently. Well, it's kinda nice; I spend most of my time around dead bodies. I mean, if someone's unconscious then they're still alive, right? Even if they're not very talkative.”

Once they reached the van, Scout unceremoniously dropped Sniper's feet and leaned up in a suave pose against the side of the camper. He brushed an errant strand of dirty blonde hair aside – but really he was wiping away the sweat on his brow before the lady saw anything.

“Well, I was just comin' to rescue this guy,” he explained in a low drawl, trying to hide the slight wheeze to his breath. “Yeah. Looks like he was already in good hands, though. What were you guys doin' to him, huh? We lost our fight today, and Snipes has got the upper hand in this place, y'know.”

Miss Pauling shuffled for a moment, apparently unsure whether to say anything. Instead, she gestured towards a nearby building, an old, wooden thing caked with snow that looked like it belonged on the front of a Smissmas card. Above the door was a hastily made sign that read: 'Degroot Keepsake – Very Legal Wares for Tourists'.

“The van's gonna be too cold. Pretty sure that's a visitor's centre just there, but it's been shut since the war started. If we just ...” Trailing off, the woman sailed over and opened the locked door with a single, hard kick by the handle, breaking the lock and exposing the white innards of the building. Distracted enough by her to forget his exhaustion, Scout seized one of Sniper's ankles and dragged him almost effortlessly into the visitor's centre – then forgot about him again and leant up against the door frame, trying to smile in a way that wasn't creepy or too enthusiastic. By the look on Miss Pauling's face, he had likely failed on both counts. Fortunately, the ringing of a phone broke the rather awkward silence.

Pauling pulled a monster of a wireless phone out of the inside of her coat and quickly answered.

“Ma'am? Yes, I'm just on my way back! Yes, I know your ashtray needs dusting – no, subject is silenced. The contract is safe.” A brief silence. “Ma'am, I'm perfectly aware there isn't enough room for you and I to feature as developed characters so close to the resolution, that's why I recommended a sequel. Even I don't know what's going on, yet! I ...” The woman covered the receiver of the handset with her fingers and turned to Scout. “Look, I've gotta go. Just make sure he gets warmed up. He's an expensive guy!”

With that, the lady headed back outside, busy soothing her evidently irritated employer. Scout stood up straight, displeased that his attempts to woo the stranger had mysteriously gone unnoticed. He wanted to ask if he would ever see her again, but before he could summon the necessary intelligence to form sentences, Miss Pauling was gone. Gone, but far from being forgotten.

Annoyed by the day's events, the boy roughly pulled his team-mate onto one of the couches in the seating area before closing the door. He kicked the packages over and then opened them to unfold the warmer attire inside. By then, Sniper was stirring, grumbling something under his breath.

“What was that?” Scout muttered, throwing the coat and hat onto the assassin's prone form.

“I said I just dreamt I performed the best jazz show in the history of mankind, only to find afterwards I had done it in nothin' but my underpants. Where the hell am I?”

It was a good question. None of the men had dared venture into unexplored territory in this place after finding that Demoman's family often used random cupboards and rooms as storage for their equipment. There wasn't a trace of gunpowder in sight in here, however. It was just a small, chilly space with some shelves hosting various ornaments that appeared to have been stolen from other tourist shops given the shop names on the labels. It was the usual stuff: paintings, ornaments of the Loch Ness Monster, and terrifying plush figures of bomber-men clad in tartan kilts.

Sniper sat up and rubbed his head. Taking note of what Scout had thrown at him, he pulled on the coat and hat and remained on the couch with his arms wrapped tightly around his form. There was an odd, glazed look to his eyes, like he couldn't remember what had happened to get him there, or like he just didn't have the motivation to bother seeking revenge.

“Look, guy,” Scout began, a nervous edge to his tone. He stood well away, nearing the door in case his team-mate rampaged. “If you're gonna kill me, just do it quick, aight? You always do it slow, like.”

“Eh?” Sniper glanced up, and his face fell with realisation. Still, he remained where he was. “Ah. If I hadn't hit my third strike with the whole team-killin' business, I might have considered it. Nah, they've got my arse over a barrel, 'cause I'd be the one who gets in the shit, as always,” the man snarled. “What the hell is the matter with ya, kid? You ain't got a drop of respect for anybody.”

“Neither do you, man!” Scout snapped back, then held up a tartan-patterned plate as if to defend himself with it. “I know I left ya there! But you've killed me outside of work, too! And, jeez, this whole trip has just _sucked_. None of the guys have been speakin' ta'me. Everyone's just freakin' miserable. I haven't been back to Boston in a whole year and I'm real homesick. I just ain't feelin' myself, y'know?”

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Sniper eventually stood on slightly unsteady legs and approached, though there was nothing threatening about the way he did.

“All right. I'm … sorry,” the assassin said, and the apology was horribly strained, like it tasted gross on his tongue. “I understand all that, mate. I've been feelin' the same way about it all. Well, I've been feelin' like that this whole past year.”

Scout lowered the plate. “Ya have?”

“Yeah. I know you're strugglin'. You've never had to put up with blokes like us before. Give it time, lad. We'll all get used to each other.”

“You're not gonna kill me?”

“Nah. In retrospect, you can't teach a kid to respect his elders by killin' him. I'll just say this, mate: you're part of a team. Respawn or no respawn, we gotta have each other's backs, even during times we hate each other's guts. Ya hear? I'm gonna start abidin' by that, too.”

“Yeah.” Scout rubbed the back of his neck and approached, finally looking the other man in the eye. The lack of violence occurring was more than a surprise, but he wasn't about to comment on it. Sniper was clearly placated enough to assess the situation with a calmer attitude than usual. “Uh, sorry ya drowned. You okay? Why'd those guys haul yo ass outta there?”

“Slap on the wrist for bein' late,” Sniper said quickly. “The Administator wanted a word.”

The boy got the general impression that Sniper was lying, but he didn't press on the matter, not wanting to ruin the rare tranquillity of the moment.

“You met the Administrator? Jeez. I think we've all only ever heard her voice, right?”

“Yeah.” The Australian shivered slightly. “You ever look at a building or thing that's so freakin' ancient you just get this overwhelmin' sense of ya own mortality? That's what it's like meetin' her. She's got a tombstone for a face. Worse than that, she's scary as hell. Don't ever get on her bad side, mate.” Before Scout could intervene with any more questions, Sniper checked his watch and seemed alarmed by the time. “Aw, shite. Did they have me in there for that long? What do ya say to a couple of beers before the day's out?”

“Yeah!” Scout replied, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah. And ya can tell me more about Miss Paulin'!”

Sniper shot him an odd look.

“Who the ruddy hell's Miss Paulin'?”

 

* * *

 

After everything, Scout was hardly surprised to see Sniper stood above him, the assassin now sporting a white robe and a pair of large, white wings. In the place of his hat was a golden halo hovering a small distance above his head. Scout took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet, and for once, he was speechless, staring at his friend as if he hadn't seem him for a number of decades.

Without thinking, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Sniper's chest. He half expected to just fall right through him, partially convinced that he was just a hallucination, but no, that warm mass was as solid as it ever was. There was a long moment of silence as Scout wordlessly clung to the first good thing that had happened since they had wound up in Death Valley, his grip growing tighter as he began to fear that Sniper would simply vanish.

“All right, that's enough,” the assassin said thickly, gently pushing Scout backwards. His eyes were redder than usual, and he quickly glanced away, clearing his throat and adjusting something on his rifle distractedly. Even when Sniper had lost his parents, Scout hadn't seen him succumb to emotion like he was now, and he'd long thought that he was simply incapable like some of the other mercs seemed to be.

“I'm sorry, man,” the boy mumbled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“What the hell are you apologisin' for?” Sniper said incredulously, though not without audible restraint on the usual gruffness of his voice.

“For ...” There was another pause, during which Scout attempted to settle on one of the many things he felt responsible for. Perhaps the most obvious choice was the fact his friend was _dead_ , and so he responded by simply gesturing at the other man's form. “I dunno. 'Cause you're dead and all, and ...”

Despite everything, Sniper smiled. He didn't have the friendliest smile in the world, but a smile was something of an achievement when it came to the foul-tempered, misanthropic bloke from the Outback.

“I ain't dead, mate. I only look like this 'cause you saw what happened, so logically I've gotta be an angel, right?”

Scout closed his eyes and moved his face into his hands for a moment. He was so freakin' tired, he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep, but he knew he couldn't. Fools welcomed death, and there was no way he was gonna be a fool. Perhaps … perhaps it was too late, though. Maybe he was already dead. Was all this some kind of purgatory where he'd been forced to face his worst fears as some kind of punishment before being taken to Heaven? Though it seemed unlikely, it sure as hell would have made everything make more sense. Still, Sniper seemed convinced that he was actually still alive, so … what? What the hell had enabled all of this crazy shit to happen?

“Snipes, I'm real confused,” he admitted, his head hanging out of both weariness and the realisation there was still some distance to travel. “Ya just shot Death in the head. I mean … what? And ya freakin' died, and after that, Spy just fuckin' vanished into thin air. Literally!”

Sniper was frowning again. He turned and gestured for the boy to follow him, strangely at ease with walking barefooted across the roasting sand. Scout did as bid and followed the guy, trudging along beside him.

“I had to come back,” murmured the older man, his voice thickening again. “I don't know if I should tell ya this just yet, but … I guess ya deserve t'know. It's my fault you're here, lad.”

Not feeling anything in particular come the half-revelation, Scout just shrugged. “Okay. So how come you can remember and I can't?”

“'Cause this place ain't anything to do with me. I'm just a guest. Look, it's gonna be hard to believe, so I'll just say it: you're not really here. You're in a hospital in San Diego.”

“Huh?” Scout managed, jogging ahead a little and turning to walk backwards, staring at the older man with wide eyes. “You been on those mushrooms again?”

“Nah. I'm in there, too. I was just … I was givin' ya a lift to the airport so you could go home for the holidays, and the next thing I remember, I'm trapped and you're unconscious. The bloke in the truck ran away, so we're just sittin' there for hours on end. I thought you were dead.”

The runner would have thought his teammate was having him on if not for the sheer guilt in Sniper's voice. He had never heard anything like it from him before, from a guy who made no secret of the pleasure that came with his grim work. There was shame in the lines of that tanned face, however, and Scout knew there had only been one other time in his life when he had felt shame to such an extent: when he'd killed a guy out of pure spite and without pay. This was something different.

“We only got found the next mornin'. I mean, I woulda just shot us both, but the bases shut down over the holidays, right? 'Cause respawn is way too much to pay in electricity bills when nobody's actually doin' any fightin'. I managed to call some of the guys when we got to the hospital. I found out Medic was already in Germany and he'd taken all his shit with him, so the only other guy I could turn to was Engie. I mean, at this point, the doc had said the chance of you wakin' up was so minute that, well … I wasn't takin' that for an answer.” Sniper met his friend's eyes, and Scout could suddenly see how tired he looked. “Engie tried everythin' he could think of. In the end, he had a long conversation with Medic over the phone and …” He stopped talking and pointed somewhere behind Scout. “Oi, look. Behind ya!”

Scout turned and grinned. In the distance, upon the edge of the bowl, was a simple, grey building, glinting like a diamond in the light of the sun. He still didn't understand what was going on, and he had no real idea of what the actual significance of the building was anymore, but seeing it and having Sniper by his side again filled him with renewed hope. This hell was close to coming to an end, at long last. The heat didn't matter, nothing mattered, he just had to get to that tourist centre. The young man pumped his fist and forgot that Sniper was in the middle of his story, instead running off to clamber up the southern slope of Badwater Basin with sudden ease and then race towards their final destination, arms spread and smile wide.

Stopping before the building, Scout leaned over and placed his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Once settled, he dropped down his pack and moved forwards, placing a hand on the thick, grey door with the tinted window. His chest hurt and his legs were shaking, but he didn't care, trying to push the stiff door open – and then stopping, realising that Sniper was still some distance behind him and apparently struggling.

The door clicked shut as he ran back without hesitation. Reaching down, he grabbed his friend's hand and pulled him up over the natural ledge of the bowl, alarmed to see those previously pristine white robes now stained crimson and shining with blood. What looked like angry, red bites were quickly flourishing on Sniper's skin. Scout could see muscle glistening in the wounds, as if some phantom entity had just decided to tear chunks out of the poor guy.

“What the hell? Not again!”

“I wasn't meant to come back,” Sniper explained quickly, brushing blood off his forearm as if it was mere dirt. “One time is fine, but the second? Your brain starts rejectin' it, especially if you had to leave 'cause you died. Anyway, it's gonna happen again unless you get into that buildin', 'cause I'm not meant to be anythin' other than dead in this place. Just make a run for it, kiddo. It'll be all right.”

“Why'd you come back, man?” Scout whined, and he quickly grasped the other man's arm to help him lower onto the sand.

“Well, it's our job, ain't it? We're always comin' back,” Sniper replied with a slight smirk. “And it's my job to kill the shits that are gonna stop ya from doin' _your_ job.” His smile fell, and he gave Scout's hand a final, reluctant squeeze before roughly removing it. “I owed it to ya. Now, piss off, gremlin.”

The boy didn't need telling twice. With one last look down at his teammate, Scout turned on his heels and sprinted back to the building. This time, the door just opened of its own accord, revealing an interior of pure white. Upon stepping inside, the intense heat of the desert immediately vanished, and he didn't feel thirst or hunger anymore. It was like he had been cleansed. Indeed, upon looking down at himself, he was no longer covered in white mud, nor was his skin remotely sunburnt anymore. It was like the past four days hadn't actually, well … happened.

Acting on impulse, he moved into a room that might have served as a seating area in any sane world. His heart leapt into his throat, for stood there waiting for him was the RED team, all uniformed and watching him with small smiles. There was something off about them, though – they weren't there like Sniper and the BLU Spy had been, but they were more like walking memories, waiting to be relived, their eyes blank but welcoming. His Ma was there, too, and so were all of his brothers, all grinning from ear to ear. They weren't really there, but the sight alone gifted Scout such an intense happiness that he felt giddy from it.

Far too giddy, in fact. The group of people watching him vanished, and the stark white walls of the building darkened until they too disappeared completely. He was not completely deprived of his senses, however. He could hear and smell and it was with such sudden intense clarity that it became all to obvious in that moment that anything he thought he might have seen during all that time was absolutely not real. He felt heavier and like a _person_ , not just a thing existing in some dreamworld with no name or purpose.

And just like that, it was over.

His vision was blurred at first, and he felt sick. Still, the face he saw upon opening his eyes was familiar enough to be recognisable through the haze of medication.

“Engie?” he rasped, though through the plastic mask on his face, he sounded something more like Pyro.

“Darn tootin',” the Texan responded with a broad grin. The rough shape of the man moved to lean over the boy, prodding at his face with a gloved hand. “Lookin' good, chuck; less like a zombie, more like a man. Looks like my machine worked, after all.”

And he got manhandled some more later on, this time by doctors and nurses who prodded him and bent him and performed hundreds of other tests until they were sure that he was relatively healthy. The entire while, Scout was fairly disassociated, wondering why he wasn't in a desert and fearing the possibility of giant bugs coming to kill them all. He couldn't even remember what year it was until he managed to ask. Apparently, it was 1973, and it was New Year's day. He was in a city, in a building with air-conditioning and all the water that he could need. Somehow, all of that was harder to accept than anything else that had occurred.

After some sleep and some proper food, Scout was able to focus far better than when he had first woken up. When he was wheeled back into his own room – a small but cosy little place filled to the brim with flowers and balloons – he saw Engie was still inside, and he was toying with a large, red contraption rather out of place beside the bed. It was perhaps his strangest looking invention yet, boasting hundreds of dials and small and unique gadgets.

Once the nurses had left, Scout attempted to sit himself up and mindlessly turn one of the dials on the machine, though his hand was slapped away.

“Nope,” Engineer snapped, and he fixed upon Scout his ominous, goggled stare. “Don't touch if you know what's good for ya, boy. She's all worn out, so best to just leave her to rest.” He patted the red machine and smiled fondly at it. “You're probably wonderin' what this has gotta do with anythin', right? Well, I'll tell ya. This here little number is called _Deus ex Machina_. That's Latin, y'know. I built her with Medic's help. To explain it as simply as possible, she maintains a person's consciousness if they're in a state they're not able to do it themselves. In your case, you were flat out and weren't gonna wake up without our help.” With a sigh, he moved his seat closer to Scout's bed – though found he was too short to properly look at him, so stood up, instead. “It gives the illusion of turning your mind into a reality. If the person is a patient, there should be a fixed place inside which signals to the body that you're healed and it's time to wake the heck up, and the journey there is kinda like the journey to recovery. You followin' me, boy?”

“Uh ...” Scout muttered groggily, rubbing one of his eyes. “Kinda? So I forced myself to wake up by getting to that part of my brain – uh, the visitor's centre?”

“Could put it that way. Essentially, sometimes the mind just needs a helpin' hand to force it to do somethin'. So, I stuck these electrodes on your head and there we were, it was a waitin' game to see if ya'll would wake up. Thing is, you've come outta this far better than we imagined …” Engineer stroked his chin for a moment. “Not only can _Deus ex Machina_ be hooked up to you, it could be hooked up to someone else. I'm sure ya know who. Thing is, we couldn't pinpoint the part of ya mind ya needed to get to, so he wouldn't have known that was where you needed to go. All the more, once you enter the _Deus ex Machina_ , its programmed to give you amnesia, 'cause it's probably better ya don't know what's really happenin' in case it drives ya nuts or just makes ya give up. Seemed there was a glitch in the system at some point, 'cause Sniper came out sayin' that he remembered everythin'.”

Scout blinked, trying to wrap his head around everything he was being told.

“If it could only hook up two people, how did the BLU Spy get in there?”

The look he received from the Texan then gave him chills, and he immediately regretted saying anything.

“What?” Engie said quietly, his hand moving to the handle of the wrench in his belt. “That … that _snake_ got into my system? You sure he wasn't just part of your mind playin' tricks on you, partner?”

“I'm sure, guy. I mean … yeah, I think? He was carryin' this purple Medibeam stuff on him, but he forgot he had it 'cause of the whole amnesia thing, then Sniper used it on me and I felt helluva lot better after that, then the machine glitched again and Spy remembered everythin' but he said his time was up and he just disappeared, like.”

His teammate seemed to cool off upon hearing that, moving his hand from his wrench up to his chin to stroke it thoughtfully.

“I see. The only explanation I can think of is that the BLU Engineer, by some miracle, devised this same machine, or somethin' similar. The Spy must've reconfigured both of 'em to be linked up, and somehow coded that Medibeam inside so he could get it to the place it was needed most. Even Medic didn't think that was possible! Without havin' access to the RED Medibeam, looks like their Spy stole some o' the purple stuff meant for emergencies – namely if the Administrator or Miss Paulin' got caught in crossfire, somehow.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” Scout snapped stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Dunno, chuck. Pretty sure I saw him skulkin' around out there, earlier. Maybe you'll get to ask him.”

Scout didn't answer, stunned by what he had learnt. The whole time, Spy had antagonised him, been thoroughly unhelpful, and had made things worse by getting in a fight with Sniper. It had all been for a greater purpose, it seemed. He had put himself in the system to act as a vessel of sorts, hoping that he would find the Medibeam and get to use it on Scout when he was hurt. It seemed he hadn't remembered, however, that the stuff had spared the boy insufferable consequences upon waking up by healing whatever damage had put him into a coma in the first place.

And Sniper? He had volunteered himself a Sherpa of sorts. He couldn't have known what he was going to face upon being linked up with Scout's mind, but he had done it, regardless, likely driven by the fact it was the car collision that had put Scout there. It was him who had been the voice of encouragement, who had urged the boy onwards when all seemed lost. It was him who sat up all night and watched over the kid when he slept. It was him who, despite having no obligation to do so, entered the _Deus ex Machina_ a second time and put himself at risk just to make sure the Scout was on course.

There had to have been something else besides guilt behind that, hadn't there? Sniper lived by his own rules and his own ends, he wasn't a self-sacrificing person, even Scout could recognise that much. Thankfully, it seemed the assassin's sometimes twisted moral code had extended far enough that the boy could sit there and think rationally about it.

“Engie, uh … thanks. What ya've done … I'm here 'cause of you, man.”

“Aw, shucks. It was a team effort, partner, like always.” Engineer grinned, and Scout matched it.

“Hey, uh – could ya do me a favour? Is Sniper near here?”

“Sure, couple a'doors down, they're gonna move him to a ward soon, but you ain't supposed to leave the bed -”

Engineer was interrupted when scout took his hand and quickly slipped the grey clip reading his heart rate onto it. The swap was seamless enough that the beeping continued as if nothing had happened, and no alarm was sounded. Engie sighed again and sat down, pulling a Mann Co. magazine from the bedside table and settling down to read it.

“Don't you get me kicked outta here, boy.”

“I won't! And, uh, outta curiosity … what woulda happened if I died in there?”

“Then you'd die for real, boy.”

“All right, but what if ya spend too long in there?”

Engineer's features darkened. “It ain't a plaything. Spend too long in there, and … ya'll would start to learn the _truth._ ”

Ignoring the man's response and avoiding his hard, empty stare, he pulled out the folded up wheelchair beside his bed. Scout just managed to force it into a usable shape before tugging all the wires attached to him away. With one somewhat clumsy movement, he dragged himself from the bed and into the wheelchair. Damn, did it ever make him feel like crap moving around like that, and he made a mental note to never lie in a bed for several days straight. The Medibeam was likely making this far easier, however, so he didn't complain, instead wheeling himself out of the room and down the corridor before he could get caught by any of the doctors doing rounds.

The first guy he recognised was the BLU Spy, who was stood with his back to Scout, watching the occupant of the next room's bed. This room wasn't graced with quite as many bouquets and gifts that Scout had received, but that was far from being the focus of the boy's attention.

“The hell are you doin' here, man? Ya think he wants you of all guys in his room?” he growled, angrily wheeling himself forwards to stop beside the bed. His face fell. Sniper was white as a sheet and watching him with glazed eyes. His features were far more gaunt than usual and his hair was too long, and worst of all, one leg and the entirety of his pelvis were bound in plaster. Regardless, though it took him a moment to recognise Scout, the kid was met with an expression of pure relief when he did.

“I was merely saying hello,” Spy shot back. “We have all just shared in something rather extraordinary, after all. As it is, he is far too addled to make any kind of conversation. You are _not_ supposed to enter the system a second time.”

“Speakin' a'which, is it true ya messed about with it just to get in there?”

Spy smirked. “Yes, it is not beyond my genius. I could only work it for a relatively short period of time, however, which is why I was forced to retreat and simply observe from the outside. It was rather a relief, of course, not having to face your fears made manifest any longer. Giant insects, boy? I suppose the mind does what it takes to remove intruders from its depths.”

Not knowing what to say, Scout perched on the edge of his wheelchair to get a closer look at Sniper and attempt communication, but the assassin had since fallen asleep. The boy exhaled and rested his forehead against the frame of the bed for a moment.

“I don't get it. They did all this for me. I thought I was just, y'know … I thought I just bugged the crap outta them. They didn't have to do none a'this.”

“Certainly,” responded the older man, and he turned to regard the RED Scout, adjusting one of his cufflinks in preparation to leave. “They did not have to, but you are their Scout, and you always will be.”

A gloved hand rested on the boy's shoulder for a moment, then moved so quickly that he doubted whether it had actually been there at all. When the Spy turned to leave, Scout quickly grabbed the tail end of his suit jacket.

“Spy? Um. Yeah.” Deftly removing his hand, Scout rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, thanks.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw a subtle nod as response.

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully enough, Medic had only been a few hours away by that point, and after charging into the hospital and demanding his patients, he had righted everything that had been made wrong by one accident.

It was only later, when Scout was hauling his luggage into Engineer's van, that he noticed the bird on the doctor's shoulder looked different, somehow – and when he realised why, his heart nearly stopped.

“Hey, doc. Why's your pigeon only got one leg?”

“Hm?” Medic purred, pulled from his thoughts. He reached up and tickled Archimedes' head. “He was caught by a feral cat, poor thing, but no matter. There are plenty of pigeon legs where that one came from.”

 

* * *

 

It was a gorgeous and cool day in San Diego. The streets were bustling with life, and Scout had never been happier to be in civilisation, and he had never been more grateful to be _alive_. Since being dismissed from hospital the day before, he hadn't slept. Instead, he had explored the city, done some gambling, and had lived it up a little. The warmth there was the good kind of heat, and so he spent the following morning sunbathing in the cool morning air and drinking 'Bonk!' to keep him awake. Come the afternoon, he got a cab to the nearest police station, because Sniper had muttered something the night before about going there to pick up his things. Sure enough, there he was in the parking lot.

It was weird seeing Sniper out of uniform. Instead of his usual attire, he was wearing jeans and what looked like one of his garish, knitted jumpers, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was busy lobbing his suitcases onto the back of a hired van with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and it was already obvious that he was in a bad mood, but that was to be expected given his circumstances: his van was trashed enough that it was no longer usable, apparently, and so he'd lost his home.

Scout jogged over and punched Sniper in the arm in greeting, causing the poor man to jump and drop his cigarette from his mouth.

“Jesus, kid. Was in a world of my own just then.”

“Yeah, man. I know how that feels!” Without pausing, the boy began to help lug some boxes over to the van. It was the least he could do, after all. “You okay, guy? Didn't see you much after we left the hospital.”

“Yeah, just buzzed off on me own for a bit,” Sniper mumbled, idly kicking one of the smaller boxes over, though Scout scooped it up somewhat protectively and placed it inside with the others. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was bugging the assassin, but the boy didn't say anything until they were done with the boxes, and then he sat on the open edge of the van with a small, inviting grin. Sniper stared at him for a moment before grumbling something and sitting down beside him, arms folded defensively across his chest. “What?”

“Oh, nothin'.” There came a brief pause. “Jeez, didn't ya notice? I'm wearin' the jumper ya knitted me for Smissmas!”

Alarmed, Sniper glanced at him. Indeed, the younger man was wearing something a colour that could only be described as puke-green with a picture resembling a colourful bauble on the front. The assassin looked less of a basset hound a few moments later, though still didn't seem sufficiently cheered up.

“Happy new year, guy,” Scout attempted, giving Sniper's arm a small shake. “Look, I've got plenty I want t'say to ya, aight, but I know ya won't wanna listen. So I'll just sum it all up as a big ol' thanks. I'm just real glad … uh, that you're here and all, 'cause seein' ya die and stuff kinda sucked. Anyways, what happened wasn't your fault, but I sure 'ppreciate you comin' in after me. Why did ya, by the way? Like, really.”

The older man scratched at the stubble on his chin before shaking his head. “Not fuckin' stupid, are ya? Yeah, all right, it wasn't just 'cause of the crash. Ya just ...” He then rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “Ya just remind me of a guy I knew that time. Ya know the one I mean. Only, you're like what he coulda been, and, yeah … when it came down to the nitty-gritty, you didn't run, mate. You always turned back. It's not in ya to leave people behind anymore, is it? It wasn't fair just to leave you, then, 'cause when it comes down to it, you might be the only bloke who would've done the same for me. Besides, it's like I said: you've still got all ya life ahead of you, mate.”

Flushing slightly, Scout glanced away and rubbed his nose. “I think ya think I'm a better guy than I am, man.”

“I don't think, Scout. I know y'are. Anyway -” Abruptly ending the conversation, Sniper stood up and closed one of the van doors before gesturing for Scout to get up and out of the way. “Our contracts for the last five years have karked it. Are you gonna renew yours?”

The kid stood up and closed the other door behind him, suddenly uncertain. “I dunno. Are you?”

“Nope.” With that, Sniper seemed to realise what he had just said, like he had only come to terms with it just then. “Nope. You getting in?” The older guy unlocked the driver's side seat and slid in, and Scout quickly followed, clambering into the passenger side with an almost frantic look.

“What do ya mean? You ain't comin' back? Is it 'cause of what happened?”

“Nah. I've just been doin' a lot of thinkin' since my parents died. In fact, I've been doin' a lot of thinkin' since I first started workin' for RED. I tried to pay my way outta my contract several times, but … they didn't like that. They didn't like that one bit.” Sniper looked rather haunted for a moment. “Y'know, I wonder what the hell it is we're even fightin' for anymore. It's just an endless cycle. We're posted to the same bloody places all the time, and the guys in charge do nothin' but get us into trouble. Me parents were caught up in it all and got somethin' they did not deserve. Yeah, I think I'm done, mate.”

When he started up the van, he seemed almost nervous, glancing quickly at Scout and clenching his fists on the steering wheel. Scout pretended not to notice for his friend's sake, and besides, knowing that the assassin was going to be leaving RED for good was not something that brought him any joy, and thus provided suitable distraction. About a year or so ago, he wouldn't have cared, but the guy had been a good figure as of late, lending an ear and sharing advice. Scout wasn't used to guys doing that.

“All right, but what are ya gonna do?” he asked, sitting back and pulling on his seatbelt.

“Go back to Australia for a bit, I guess, then go and see the world again before I'm knocked off the mortal coil. I'll pick up a few jobs on the way around, like I used to. Get me name out there again, y'know?”

Scout stayed silent for a while, looking out his window and chewing on the sleeve of his jumper thoughtfully. He had never thought so until their recent experience, but the life Sniper used to lead was an appealing one. Travelling around, not calling one place home, meeting all the people of the world and shooting some of them for a living. That short time in the desert when it had merely seemed like they were lost was actually kind of fun, now that he thought about it. It was only the weird shit happening that had pretty much ruined everything – and the terrible fear of death, of course, but Scout wasn't scared of death anymore. He had punched Death in the face. Twice.

Even better, he'd learnt a hell of a lot about himself and others in the weird and wacky world that was his own mind.

“Mind if I tag along?” he asked in a smaller voice than he liked. Sniper, thankfully, didn't belittle him by scoffing or laughing or even asking why, and Scout became surer that he had made the right choice.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” the boy said firmly. “Yeah, though I gotta stop by my Ma, first. Let her see I'm still alive, right?”

“Fine with me, gremlin.” Sniper's lips curved in a wonky smile. “We've faced the trials of California, now let's go kick whatever the rest of the world's got to throw at us in the arse.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> Thank you for your comments. Stay tuned. :)


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